


Endless Night

by SquirrellyThief



Series: Moonlight Over the Forest [4]
Category: Forgotten Realms, The Legend of Drizzt -R. A. Salvatore
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, The Sundering
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-31
Updated: 2017-04-05
Packaged: 2018-02-23 09:29:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 77,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2542727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SquirrellyThief/pseuds/SquirrellyThief
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Sundering is upon us. The lands have been cloaked in pure darkness, not even the stars remain.<br/>Something evil is coming. It creeps in the corner of one's eye, watching from a distance.<br/>The people are fearful. Food is already running scarce and the gods cannot hear the tearful prayers of their followers.<br/>A black fog rolls through Neverwinter Wood. Something is lurking there, biding its time, preparing to strike.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Friends Old and New

Slivers of light in deep oranges and reds; a fire kept far enough away that it wouldn’t hurt his eyes. Voices always hushed but never quite the same from one time to the next; soft, lyrical tones or gruff clinical ones, a distant argument growing in volume only to be shushed into silence. Warmth rested against his shoulder and chest, a chill on his forehead and leg. The thought of his leg brought surges up his torso, not of pain but something else; warm and tingling, tight like there should be pain, but he couldn’t quite feel it. A death grip through a soft blanket.

Coherence came in waves. He’d get close to wakefulness, but never enough to be in control. He’d feel the pressure in his head or dryness in his throat, smell the medicines, or gain use of some other faculty, but never all of them at once. Was this what dying felt like? Artemis couldn’t remember. All those times he’d died had never quite been this gradual. It was fade to darkness or abrupt absence of self, never like drifting away on a raft down a steady stream.

He could feel someone shaking his shoulder. It rattled the weight in his head and jostled his eyes open. Things were blurry and dark around the edges. The longer he kept his eyes open, the more everything seemed to focus.

Maybe he wasn’t dying after all.

Words were beyond his ability at first. But he managed to look around. Athrogate was sitting beside him, he seemed tenser than normal, which was saying something since the dwarf rarely let himself be rattled by anything. Artemis blinked at him stupidly trying to remember how to speak.

“Can ye hear me, Entreri?” The dwarf asked, keeping his voice low. “C’mon man, I need ye awake. I dun’ want to be doin’ this to ye unconscious. Doesn’t seem right.”

The assassin made a quiet noise he thought sounded affirmative. His mouth was still reluctant to cooperate. Even though his thoughts were clearing, every little command he tried to give his body was like walking through quicksand. He tried to ask questions but only succeeded at making questioning noises.

“Don’t,” the dwarf warned, “yer in pretty bad shape. Just take it easy.”

“Where’s-“ He tried for more words, but they just wouldn’t come.

Athrogate seemed to understand the question anyway, “Drizzt an’ the others are out gatherin’ supplies. They ain’t gonna be gone long, so I gotta be quick.” The dwarf rummaged around beside him and held up a dagger. Artemis quickly recognized it as his own. “Yer gonna die if ye keep on like this.”

The human could see the dots of Athrogate’s plan, but for some reason couldn’t connect them. “What-“ Artemis still couldn’t get whole sentences out.

“We’ve been here a while,” Athrogate explained and the weapon dropped from Entreri’s view, “an’ ye haven’t gotten much better. Ye need to get back on yer feet an’ soon.” The assassin felt the weight of the dagger in his hand, the steel and leather grip warm to the touch. “Ye remember what ye did in Vaasa? Fer the orc girl? It worked then, it should work now.”

Before Artemis could try to argue, he felt the dwarf’s calloused hand close around his forcing him to grip the weapon. He saw Athrogate wince and commanded the dagger to feed without a second thought. Magic danced up his wrist and arm like embers spat from a fire. The weight in his head dissipated and the world came sharply into focus for a few moments. Suddenly he could feel pain again, all of it in his leg, like someone sticking clawed fingers into a small wound to tear it wider. The assassin thought his teeth would crack he clenched them so tightly. The sparks went to the wound next, but didn’t have time to take all of the pain away.

Athrogate pulled his arm back. “They’re almost here,” he said, taking the dagger back when Artemis managed to loosen his grip on it. “Sorry.”

The pain was still intense, but at least he could function again. “Why?”

“’Cause ye needed it, and I’ve got years to spare.” Athrogate laughed, but found himself on the business end of a harsh glare and rethought the joke. “We’ve been through a lot together, fought a dracolich together, I ain’t gonna watch you die.”

Artemis couldn’t help but smile a little. “Thank you, then. I suppose.”

The dwarf tucked the weapon away at the back of his belt. “We’re friends, Artemis, ye don’t need to thank me. Only let me believe ye’d’ve done the same fer me.”

“I promise not destroy the illusion.”

“That’s all I ask.” Athrogate took his hand and Artemis didn’t pull away. “Oh, and,” the dwarf added hastily, “Just keep this between us. Ambergris finds out I did this she’ll take the rest o’ me beard. She isn’t fond o’ that dagger an’ what it does.”

“Not many are,” Artemis agreed as his hand was released, “I won’t say a word.” He pushed himself up on his elbows, “I guess they’ll want me to tell them what happened.”

“Not now,” Athrogate dropped his voice to a whisper as the sound of footsteps and light conversation filled the small cavern that was their camp. “Rest, get some more of yer strength back before ye start talkin’. Everyone’s gonna want to leave and I’d rather not get stuck on litter detail, if ye follow.”

Artemis rolled his eyes, but sank back down. He wasn’t any fonder of the idea of being carried around than Athrogate was with the prospect of carrying him.

“Rest up, me friend. Ye’ll need it.” The dwarf patted him on the shoulder and stood, leaving him be.

Artemis Entreri may have had his problems with Athrogate. The dwarf was loud, annoying, and could grind Artemis’s last nerve without too much effort if he’d felt inclined to. But, despite his faults and habits, he was loyal. And Artemis found that redeeming, at least for now.

He wondered if that loyalty was part of the reason Athrogate and Jarlaxle had been so close through the years without him. Or Drizzt and his dwarf. The thought carried with him into his usual, lighter, sleep.

-0-0-0-0-0-

The girls hadn’t been overjoyed when they found out they would have to refurbish the run-down inn themselves and Tiago took no small amount of entertainment in watching them grow more frustrated daily. He considered it a kind of revenge and laughed at Dahlia whenever the opportunity presented itself. Well, not _whenever_. Dahlia’s authority was similar to that of a Matron within the group and undermining it meant risking disfavor of his own. But, whenever they were alone everything suddenly became hilarious.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself,” Dahlia commented as Tiago took a seat at her desk one evening. Or, they were going to call it evening since the sun still had yet to return and everything was still dark all the time. She was on her bed by the window, leaning over a mirror in her lap, examining and tending to her damaged eye socket. It was scarring over well, as far as Tiago could see, but it was still alarming to look at directly.

“It’s fun to see you ladies all flustered over this,” the drow laughed. “You know, if you’d given me a bit more money to spend on the building I wouldn’t have gotten one that was mostly rubble.”

“I told you to make the most of what you had.” Dahlia shot back, flinching when her damp cloth hit a still-tender area.

Tiago kicked his feet up on the desk. “And I did. You have any idea how much haggling I had to do to get a place this big? The humans aren’t overly fond of my kind to begin with and I think they’re less fond of me now.”

The elf replaced her eyepatch and set the mirror aside. “Well, given that I expected worse, I can’t really complain. I appreciate the effort.”

Scowling, the drow struggled for a response. He wasn’t sure if the appreciation was backhanded or genuine and if it needed to be met with charm or scathing sarcasm. So, instead of meeting the statement head-on, he went in a different direction. “The others don’t seem to have a problem complaining,” he joked.

“Anything’s an upgrade from Conrad’s little dungeon,” Dahlia commented. “Or even Skullport. The open air, the freedom to leave. They should be grateful, and they are. To me, of course. I’ve told them not to extend those courtesies to you.”

“Good to know it was intentional and not just everyone hating me.” Tiago laughed a little.

“Well, they hate you genuinely too, I just told them to express it.”

Tiago rolled his eyes and laughed all the more.

A knock took the two elves from their moment. Talim’s tattooed face peeked in. “Guildmaster, a moment?”

Dahlia waved her in.

Tiago didn’t bother to listen to the two women talk. Guild business that most likely wouldn’t concern him anyway. As much as he liked the girls, he still felt the odd man out since he was never officially inducted as a member.

Talim was nice enough, as far as Tiago could tell from the short time he’d been around her. She was always gone on some errand or another. Some given by Dahlia, others not. The human had an unholy amount of energy and was enough to make Tiago’s head spin whenever he watched her work around the guildhouse. But she was the most competent and dedicated member of the group, and thus Dahlia trusted her with most of the outside tasks.

It was better than that elf witch. He could never remember her name other than it started with an S. She was in charge of the books, mostly because she was faster with numbers than Tiago by a questionable margin and partially because she was an actual member. The drow wasn’t any more her fan that she was his and they constantly sneered at each other across tables or corridors like children. Tiago was almost certain her hatred of him was racially motivated, and possibly justified, but he wasn’t about to let her get away with being snooty unopposed.

He got on best with the little one. Glenda, he thought her name was, all tiny and swimming in the fabric of her dress. She was always watching him. At first he thought the poor dear had been swayed by his dandy nature, but soon he discovered that wasn’t the case. She was studying him, observing. Eventually, she approached him and asked him to teach her how to move so quietly across the rickety floorboards. Since he lacked better things to do and didn’t want to do much in the way physical labor, he agreed. She took to stealth naturally, but not so much to swordsmanship when their lessons turned that way.

Tiago was jolted from his wandering thoughts by the sound of footsteps beside him. Talim was passing by to get to the door.

“Of course, Raven.” She said, answering some question or responding to some order Dahlia had given as she ducked out with hardly a whisper of sound.

When she was long gone, or should have been long gone, Tiago began rifling through Dahlia’s desk. “’Raven?’” he asked, trying to use casual conversation to deflect the fact that he was going through the guildmaster’s things without permission. “Don’t they know your real name?”

“I never bothered to tell them,” Dahlia replied, situating herself so her back was against the wall. “What are you looking for?”

“Corkscrew.”

“Top drawer on the left.”

He found the corkscrew and then dug through his pack for a cloth bundle containing a bottle of wine. Rising from seat, he opened the bottle. “It’s good,” he said when Dahlia arched a quizzical eyebrow. She scoffed at him as he sat beside her, offering the bottle. “Why not tell them your name?” he asked as she took it.

“I don’t know,” she took a small sip and then a larger one. “I guess I just wanted a new start. You know?”

Tiago took the bottle. “I’m starting to.” He took a sip and went to hand the bottle back, only to realize that he was sitting in Dahlia’s blindspot and she couldn’t see him. He nudged her with the bottle.

She took it and they drank in silence for a while.

“Why Neverwinter?” Tiago asked. “There’s hardly anything here anymore. This can’t be good for business.”

Dahlia tapped the bottle with her fingernail, contemplating her answer. “Szass Tam put a Dread Ring here a few decades ago. If I know anything about him, it’s that he doesn’t like to lose. He’ll come back for this place and use the ring to do it. War will come to Neverwinter.”

“And there is war, there is crime.” Tiago laughed, taking the bottle from her. “How soon do you think that’ll be?” Business had been dead and most of the supplies in their storerooms were stolen because they couldn’t afford to stock the place with basic necessities yet. They were bound to be found out, or worse, arrested, very soon.”

“If Szass Tam is as smart as everyone says he is” Dahlia mused, “he’s already on his way.”

Tiago raised the bottle in a toast, though he wasn’t sure if he liked the thought of an undead horde kicking in the gates as a way to get work.


	2. Meditations

Afafrenfere could feel a dull ache in his lower back from where the task of sitting on stone was taking its toll. That was the point, he remembered, blocking things out and not focusing on things like aches or voices or worries. He was always so terrible at the spiritual and mental parts of his monk training and his mentors had never been afraid to tell him so. Every day they reminded him that if he didn’t embrace the non-combative teachings, he would always remain a thief and a fighter, never a fully-realized monk.

For a while, Afafrenfere had been okay with this. The combat training had been all he really needed and Parbid had assured him that the spiritual connection was a bunch of hokey garbage that didn’t actually mean anything anyway. So, on the day to day he muddled through the sessions of meditation and days of fasting; the preaching about transcendence of self and oneness with the universe and all those other things that didn’t make a whole lot of sense to him.

One phrase in particular remained burned into his memory. He wasn’t sure if it was because of the frustration of misunderstanding or that the phrase meant something to him he couldn’t put into words.

_Breathe deep. Let fresh air penetrate your soul. Let it wash over you and wipe the slate clean._

Afafrenfere took a deep breath, but felt no cleaner for it. “Hokey garbage, the lot of it.” He heard Parbid’s voice laugh on the edges of his memory, “Aff?”

“Afafrenfere,” Effron’s voice called to him and a gentle hand shook him from his reverie. “Sorry to interrupt…whatever it is you’re doing,” The warlock took a step back to give Afafrenfere room to stand up, “But Entreri’s been awake for a while and we need to –“

He was cut short by the sound of the assassin shouting, “The hell you are!” And something being thrown inside the cavern. Both men turned to see what was happening but had missed the most of it. All they could see was the human, propping himself up on his elbow, left arm free as if he’d thrown something and Ambergris standing not too far away looking thoroughly pissed off.

“They’ve been at this for a few minutes,” Effron explained, leaning to the side so a whisper might be heard, “Since Ambergris mentioned taking his leg.”

“Wasn’t Drizzt supposed to tell him?” Afafrenfere asked in a similarly hushed voice, “So this wouldn’t happen?”

Effron just gave a lopsided shrug.

The argument continued on despite the repetitive intervention of Athrogate and Drizzt’s harried pleas for peace. Even when Effron and Afafrenfere approached the group the cleric and the assassin were still making a racket over the severity of the man’s injuries.

“You know what I do,” Artemis asked, not entirely a question, “You know what kind of damage losing a limb is going to cause me?”

“I don’t really care because any damage is better than bein’ dead,” the dwarf shot back.

The assassin rolled his eyes, “Better to be dead than useless forever. I can’t fight on a fake leg. I’d be a sitting duck out there. It’s just cruel.”

Ambergris pulled her mouth into a thin line. She stared daggers at the man before saying in unnaturally calm tone, "I'd rather be cruel now take a limb to save yer life than be infinitely crueler standin' idly by watchin' ye die slowly."

“You take my leg now, you condemn me to die slowly.”

A hot, suffocating quiet filled their small cavern home. No one wanted to say anything, lest they be accused of taking sides and starting the whole, seemingly tabled, argument up again. Across the confined space Ambergris and Artemis stared daggers at each other, daring their opposite to speak. Afafrenfere opened his mouth to step in, but was silenced by two dangerously sharp looks.

Effron, however, seemed unfazed by such things. “Enough,” he said, stepping up beside the monk and turning toward Ambergris, “Taking the leg now is foolhardy.” When she scowled at him, Effron didn’t even blink. “We should wait until we’re in a city,” he explained, “With proper supplies. _Medicine._ Infection and bloodloss almost killed him the first time, who’s to say it won’t kill him now?”

The cleric opened her mouth to argue, but hesitated. Drizzt took that moment to step in and agree with Effron, commenting that Entreri’s fever had only just barely broken, to do something traumatic now might undo the healing he’d already done. Ambergris, defeated for now, sighed and shrugged, “I can’t argue with ye. But how’re we supposed to get him there? It’s not exactly an easy walk to anywhere from here, an’ he’s not fit to ride a horse.”

“We can carry him,” Afafrenfere offered, “Drizzt and I.” She arched a bushy brow skeptically and Afafrenfere wanted to shake her. “I know,” he said, growing argumentative, “that you think so little of the orcs, but I think that we make ourselves nonthreatening they’ll let us pass through.”

Both Drizzt and Ambergris looked like they were about to argue with him.

“And if they don’t,” the monk said before they could, “we give Artemis his dagger, throw him in the back, and funnel fatally wounded enemies at him until he heals.”

The cleric was the only one unswayed by that option.

“They’re gon’ be tryin’ to kill us anyway,” Athrogate argued, finally joining the others, “Why not use their deaths to our benefit?”

“I do not like the magic the dagger contains.” Ambergris said with a firm finality that spoke of her refusal to change her decision. “Nor do I like the idea of that magic bein’ turned on us. An’, knowin’ you,” she matched Artemis’s glare, “it very well could be. But I seem to be outnumbered on this, so fine. We’ll do it their way.”

A mutual sigh of relief spread through the cavern. Entreri still seemed ready for a fight. If Afafrenfere had to guess it would have something to do with the fact that his weapons were taken in the first place. Drizzt whispered something in his ear and the assassin never gave that fight a voice.

“So, ye wanna tell us what happened in Menzoberranzan?” Athrogate prompted, changing the subject to clear the air.

Artemis sighed, looking about the group and gave them a quick telling of the events. How he met Jarlaxle in an abandoned House and they snuck in to House Baenre. How Drizzt was both prisoner and honored guest as Chosen, with brief mention of the armor the Baneres had given –or forced- him to wear. He explained that Drizzt was still behaving strangely when they got there and at first refused Artemis’s aid and had to be forced. Quickly he recounted his fight with Andrzel, the injury, fleeing and being stuck in the Underdark and getting lost a few times. His and Drizzt’s flight through the tunnels when the githyanki surged on them, of the illithid and its servant girl.

“We did meet them,” Afafrenfere said when Artemis told them how the illithid had spoken of helping in Gauntlgrym. “That was true. What happened to them?”

“They split off from us to buy us time.” Artemis replied, “They seemed very worried about something. Kept talking amongst themselves. We heard screaming in the tunnels,” He turned a solemn look to Drizzt, “It sounded like they were killed down there, but we don’t know for sure.”

Drizzt sighed heavily and shook his head, but added nothing.

“Things get hazy for me after that,” Entreri concluded, “Next thing I remember clearly is waking up here.”

The group took the story well. It matched up with the limited information Drizzt had given them. They talked among themelves, asked Artemis a few questions about how he broke into House Baenre or what had happened to Jarlaxle and got a few specifics, but more often than not Entreri gave either vague answers or flat out “I don’t know”s. He stated several times that Jarlaxle’s mindset and purpose would always be a mystery to him and he’d learned better than to try to think too hard about it. When they were satisfied, the group focused on what to do next. They may have had an idea of how to get Artemis mobile, but nothing else had crossed their minds to plan while they tried to stay safe and let the assassin recover.

“We need to figure out where we’re gon’ go-“

Athrogate had barely gotten the sentence out when Effron said, “Silverymoon,” with the tone of someone who had put enough thought into it that he was certain. Everyone else looked at the warlock quizzically and Effron only shrugged and said, “We’re going to Silverymoon. It’s not too far. It’s a huge city that’s bound to have the supplies we need.”

“We’d have to go through the mountains-“

“Perhaps we should discuss it elsewhere?” Afafrenfere laughed, attempting to usher the group into the larger space closer to the mouth of the cave. He cast a sidelong glance to Entreri, the man was rapidly losing his color and looked like he could pass out at any moment.

Some murmuring and muttering and the others moved away from Entreri’s bedside. “We’ll tell you what we decide upon.” Afafrenfere heard Drizzt say, “You still need rest.” Out of the corner of his eye, the monk saw Drizzt rise only to have the assassin take him by the wrist and guide him back down. He said something Afafrenfere couldn’t hear, but judging by the look on Drizzt’s face, it wasn’t good.

-0-0-0-0-0-

She used the still flaming end of a half-used stick of incense to light the candles on her altar. When the small, deep red flames were enough to see by Saribel blew out the flame to let the incense burn and smoke properly and placed it in its customary dish. The priestess closed her eyes and breathed deep. The smoke settled in her chest, swirling in an empty black void that had not always been there. She felt the cut in the tether that held her to her goddess leaving her alone and adrift. Like a tightrope walker on slack line without a safety net.

Something terrible was coming, and she was not ready.

A rush of fresh air cascaded into the room, snuffing out her candles and disrupting the line of smoke, as the door to her chamber was opened.

“What is it Berellip?” She asked, not bothering to turn and look away from the onyx effigy of Lolth perched at the center of her altar. Saribel knew her sister was the only one foolish enough to not only bother her while she meditated, but to open her chamber door without permission.

Saribel heard the rattling of the door handle behind her, “I’ve been receiving more reports of dwarven ghosts in the lower chambers. And several more of our men stationed near the throne room have turned up missing.” The click of her boots as Berellip shifted her weight, “It’s getting worse and the soldiers are talking about abandoning this place and returning to Menzoberranzan. Wrath of the Matrons or no.”

The priestess sighed. “There will be as little for us there as there is here. Remind them of that.”

How long had their magic been gone now? Days? Weeks? Who among them could imagine the hell Menzoberranzan had become with the sudden absence of clerical magic? It would be chaos, or even war, all over again.

“Remind them of happened during Lolth’s last silence, and ask them if they would rather deal with vengeful dead or hateful living.” Saribel closed her eyes, but still the emptiness drained her, “If they still choose to leave I will not stop them.”

She could sense Berellip’s surprise, “What? You’d just _let_ them leave? This place will be empty!”

“I doubt that.” Saribel countered. “The people who remain are of the Xorlarrin and Baenre houses. Their loyalties once lay with their Matrons. Now those Matrons are out of power and they will be forced to fight and die to protect them until that power returns. Or, they can stay here and narrowly avoid ghosts while being cared for and otherwise unbothered. They speak from fear now, but in the end they will make the right choice. They have not rebelled yet, and they never will.”

“You cannot possibly be certain,” Berellip scoffed, the click of her boots grew louder and the door creaked on its hinges. “Fear does strange things to people. They may make a break for the surface if need be.”

“And go where?”

“I don’t know,” the other priestess said, “but they may.”

This time, Saribel did turn to face her sister, “You honestly believe that these men, these cowards, who are so afraid of a few ghosts would go to the surface, on a human city’s border, and risk be branded deserters like Tiago? No, sister. They speak from fear, not conviction. When the time comes and they have their opportunity, they will not run unless we tell them to.

“But,” she added, still seeing the furrow of concern in Berellip’s brow, “Let us err on the side of caution. Pull all guards inward, toward to forges and away from rooms with the most reports, including the throne room. Keep everyone in trios or pairs, no one is to be alone while these disappearances keep happening with such frequency.” She turned back to her altar, “Perhaps Ravel was right about more than just the things he saw. There very well may be a Baenre saboteur in our midst. Have any of their people vanished?”

“No. Not that I’ve heard.”

“Good,” Saribel felt the pull of a wicked smile at the corners of her mouth, but resisted the urge to give in to that pull. “Make sure the Baenres are stationed the farthest outside the complex. We can’t let them outnumber us, after all. Now, go. Give the orders. If anyone has a problem,” She pulled at the small, concealed handle under the runner on her altar. The drawer was deep and wide. Saribel reached in a pulled out a long, curved dagger that took up most of the space, “Send them to me.”

“Of course.” The clicking of Berellip’s boots receded and the door squeaked shut.

When she was sure she was alone, Saribel pricked her finger with the knife. A single, fat drop of blood welled up against her skin. She lowered her hand and tipped it in the line of white smoke, letting the drop fall into the tray with a soft _ping._

-0-0-0-0-0-

Drizzt could feel the chill of color leaving is face as Artemis broke the news to him. He claimed to have left that information out for Drizzt’s benefit, to help him save face with the group and not look like the complete traitor these claims made him out to be. He slept with a priestess, possibly with her slave as well, he was _happy to be there._ His heart cracked like glass under too much pressure as Artemis gave the few details he could about the woman, the boy, and the priestess’s death. A pit formed in his stomach and threatened to swallow him whole.

The look on Artemis’s face was not one of understanding.

“That wasn’t me,” Drizzt said after a moment of emotional stammering, “I wasn’t myself, something else- something _evil_ took over. I wasn’t in control anymore. Please, Artemis, you have to believe me.” He could feel the pressure in his chest creeping up his throat and threatening to spill out through his eyes or his words and it took all of his willpower to hold it in check.

Artemis made a face the ranger couldn’t read but he knew he should have been able to. He leaned against the pillows Drizzt had started piling to prop him up before he started telling him about the left-out information. “I understand that you’re sick,” he said, voice eerie and even, like he had emotions of his own to control, “that things aren’t as they should be. But I can’t just let this go. Catti-Brie told me that soul had been torn into pieces. _Torn._ Not that this,” He gestured at a loss for words, “Was something created by Lolth to ruin you. It is a _part_ of you, Drizzt. Without restraint and it did these things. It _said_ those things to me, and I can’t be certain it won’t happen again.”

Without thinking, Drizzt took him by the arm. “I _saw_ _it_ ,” He argued, “that… that _creature_ Lolth had controlling me all this time. It’s _not_ _me_. Artemis, please. I wasn’t in control _at all_ , you-“

“A drunk man,” Artemis said, an ever-so-slight twinge of anger in his voice, “is not always in full control of his actions, does that make him less responsible for beating his wife? I think you know the answer.”

Drizzt hung his head, his hand still on Artemis’s tense arm. This wasn’t what he wanted. He needed to convince Artemis of the truth, or at least get him to stay long enough to see it himself. “Please,” he begged, “Don’t- Don’t leave.” He looked up, despite the burn in his eyes and held Entreri’s gaze, “I won’t ask you to just forgive me, but please stay. Give me a chance to-“ he knew that arguing with Artemis’s assertions now, without proof, was futile, “to make things right. I did not mean for this to happen. I cannot undo what has been done, but I can’t let this go without trying to make it better.”

The human’s face softened. At least he’d believed that much. “Okay. I won’t leave. I’ll stay until my leg heals and for the group. Maybe, in that time I can be convinced to give you another chance. I do not want things to end this way either.”

The ranger practically melted at his side. “Thank you,” he breathed. “I know you think I don’t deserve this, but thank you.”

The two sat in silence for some time, Drizzt kept his hand on Artemis’s arm and the assassin made no move to pull away. Eventually, Drizzt looked up and saw the unfocused glassiness in Artemis’s eyes and told him to go back to sleep. “I’ll tell you what they decide when you wake again,” Drizzt repeated, trying to keep his tone all business. “I’ll make sure it’s something you can stand.”

“No dwarves.” Was all Artemis mumbled before sinking down and drifting off to sleep.

It took Drizzt several moments to pull himself together enough to talk to the group. Thankfully, when he did they were already in the midst of arguing among themselves they hardly even noticed him. Effron refused to budge on his Silverymoon idea and the dwarves kept arguing that a dwarven hold would be safer, or at least travel to a village first.

Effron’s stubbornness, however, won the day and Drizzt was left to wonder why the warlock wanted to go to that particular city so badly.


	3. Darkness

The cities of men struggled without the light of the sun. At first, the eclipse seemed only temporary, but as the sky darkened, fear grew. Cities scrambled to light lanterns on streets, soldiers went out to line the roads with light so they may be seen. Some returned, others did not.

The wind stopped blowing. Mills ground to a halt, flags and banners lay limp in the still air. The atmosphere grew charged, heralding a coming storm, but no rain fell. Crops began to die on the verge of the harvest days and farmers hurriedly called upon friends and neighbors to salvage what was left.

Wildlife went into hiding, the way they do when great storms flood the lands. It made them difficult to hunt and all but the most proficient of hunters was left without a prize to bring home. The lakes and rivers grew choppy, or in some areas, briny like the ocean. Fish, bloated and with fogged eyes washed up on shore unfit to eat and more often than not left to rot.

Valindra watched it all from the tower of Ashenglade and laughed at their struggles. It had only been a few weeks since the dark hand of godlessness stretched across the land and values of the world began to shift. In a flight of whimsy she looked at the sconce of candles against the wall at her right shoulder. Their flames danced in their typical yellowy orange. She turned to her left, dark hair falling from her shoulder; those flames were green.

Such a strange occurrence, this Sundering. She stopped laughing.

Her glass was empty.

When did she get a glass?

Reflected in that glass, Valindra saw a dark shape that was growing much too familiar for her liking. “What do you want?” She asked, looking up to see Draygo Quick standing in the doorway. How long had he been there?

Judging by the way the old warlock rolled his eyes and tapped his iron staff against the ground, quite some time. “You need to call off the ghoul dogs. It’s too soon, the army isn’t ready for retaliation yet. We need subtlety.”

Validra rose from her seat with a small flourish. Sparks of blue fire danced across her vision momentarily focusing her thoughts in the present. “Why isn’t the army ready?” she scoffed, twirling her glass in her hand, “Spending too much time on that construct of yours?”

“You aren’t exactly contributing,” Quick shot back, but the black heart in his chest sped up its beating ever-so-slightly. The glassteel plate covering his chest wasn’t nearly as good at concealing his reactions as the original flesh and bones. Though, if Valindra was asked she’d say the open-chested undead appearance suited the necromancer.

No one ever asked her though.

“Did you not just say my festrogs were being problematic?” She asked, folding her arms and feigning offense.

“Not contributing _productively._ ” Draygo amended.

The lich took a bite out of her glass and spat the shards at him. “I speak with Szass Tam and relay his orders. I organize what he sends through the Ring. All you do is work on that,” she paused, looking out the window to find the dark shape that was Draygo Quick’s little project. She pointed at it with the broken glass when she found it, “thing of yours.”

“That _thing_ ,” Draygo said, taking a few stuttering steps to stand at the window beside her, “may just turn the tide of this fight. He’s smarter than most of the things we have out here.”

That was a new piece of information, “Oh?” She tilted her head quizzically at the creature, “He retains the skill he had in life? Even with the new arm and eyes?”

The creature wandered about Quick’s section of the camp with a smooth ease atypical of the undead they’d been charged to stock up on. It moved in steady, precise circles and had already beaten a path in the ash surrounding the warlock’s rather large tent.

“He’s getting used to the new limbs, but soon he will be as good in death as in life.” Draygo tapped his staff against the floor thoughtfully, “Perhaps even more so, since he’ll actually take orders this time and put all that skill to proper use. Make a better reputation for himself.”

“What was his reputation in life?” Valindra asked, following the black splotch with the bottom of her glass as it made its rounds in the distance.

“He was a monster.”

“Splendid.”

-0-0-0-0-0-

Andrzel was still limping when he came into the chapel of House Baenre. The place was still a mess even if most of the blood and dust had been swept away. The statue sconces were empty and scratches, some deep enough to trip a person up if he wasn’t careful, littered the once beautifully polished marble floors. Quenthel hadn’t left her seat in almost three days as far as anyone knew. She just sat, staring off into space, ignoring all who approached her. Ultimately the priestesses had elected Andrzel talk to her since his death would be inconsequential to them.

He’d spoken to her a few times prior to this particular meeting, but was graced only with silence and staring. “Matron Mother?” he asked, expecting more of the same, “I’ve given the order to pull the last parties back into the city. Do’Urden and his man are on the surface by now, those men are needed—“

“I told her.”

The weapons’ master started a bit in surprise. Those were the first words she’d spoken since the final words had come back on the escapes of Drizzt Do’Urden and Jarlaxle. “Excuse me?”

“I told her,” Quenthel snarled in particular, “That that boy was a waste of resources. And now he has betrayed me and his city. I was right Triel! I was always right! And now you’ve saddled me with this because you wouldn’t listen to me.” She calmed down, her grip on the arms of her chair enough to crack her once long and elegant fingernails. Her head snapped to Andrzel as if she’d just noticed he was there. “What do you want?”

Andrzel hesitated, not sure if she was actually talking to him, or if she was still inside her own head. “I want to know what you desire your troops to do, Matron Mother,” he said, voice firm, “The city’s open fighting is dying down, but unrest is still running rampant in the shadows and behind doors.”

The Matron settled in her seat, seeming more herself again. “Keep them here,” she said. “But make sure they are ready to march if that unrest gets too close.”

With a brisk nod Andrzel accepted the order. It alarmed him how quickly she’d gone from silent to raving to sane, but he was not in a position to criticize Quenthel or her actions. Not with the priestesses looming in the doorway, watching him. “Gromph desires to speak with you as well. He’s sent a number of missives the last few days.”

“Tell him to come here. I’ll speak with him.”

Still mildly alarmed, Andrzel nodded, told her that was all, and left the chapel. As he did, the Matron resumed her staring at nothing in silence. Once outside the priestesses bombarded him with questions and all the weapons’ master could do was shrug and look confused. They waved him off and filed in, each demanding the matron’s attention. Andrzel didn’t bother to linger and see the results. Not if he was going to run the message to Gromph himself.

-0-0-0-0-0-

They were making good time despite Artemis slowing the group down considerably. It had taken a day, by Effron’s count and everyone was trusting the warlock to stay in charge of time, longer than predicted to get the assassin mobile and Artemis was bound and determined to make up for that lost time. Even if that mean pushing himself until his good leg gave out, which he seemed dangerously close to doing on more than one occasion.

Drizzt couldn’t stop himself from constantly looking at the man’s bandaged leg and wanting to ask Artemis if he was okay to keep going. He knew the answer he’d get every time and that was the only thing staying his tongue.

The ranger elected to stay on Artemis’s injured side closer to the ledges as they traveled down to the main roads. Partly it was because he wanted to be able to survey the surrounding, the other part being Afafrenfere’s sightlessness and need to be led by Effron who seemed to be playing babysitter to both the human and Entreri’s nightmare. Drizzt had shaken his head at the prospect of calling for Andahar, even without the bells the large, white unicorn would make it difficult to move stealthily through the orc territories. No one argued with him.

Around the rattling of their equipment and the stomping of their boots and the hooves of the mounts there was silence. It was deep and terrifying like the silences that swept the Underdark. The silence of a predator nearby, too far to be noticed by prey, but not bystanders. Drizzt even started to imagine footsteps at his side more than once, despite their being too little ground beside them for something to approach from that side. A bit worried, took a big gulp of air. No smoke.

At least that had stopped.

A noise cut the quiet. Artemis’s good leg sliding as the two men carried him and he couldn’t pick it up fast enough to take a proper step. The assassin winced and they all slowed.

“We can stop,” Drizzt whispered to him, “there’s nothing for miles. Don’t kill yourself on our behalf.”

“I can keep going,” the assassin replied through gritted teeth. “I kept up in the Underdark, I can keep up here.”

Afafrenfere shrugged his shoulders, even he was starting to feel some strain, “We’ll keep an eye out for a place to make camp just in case.” The dwarves immediately turned around but the monk, assassin, and even the ranger shot looks in their direction that quelled any protests.

They kept on, painfully slow, but progressing. A low growling noise echoed around the mountains. The dwarves halted in front muttering things and reaching for their weapons.

Drizzt couldn’t help but roll his eyes, “It was a _bear_. Calm down. It probably lives around here. They’re pretty common.” He looked up and around the ledges for the creature and he did see it high above them. With a rider. He squinted, straining his eyes. It was an orc, female though it could have just been a young male at first glance, most of its form was concealed by a heavy cloak. A large bow lay across its back, the quiver was attached to the pseudo-saddle keeping the orc astride the bear as it lumbered slowly. The dim yellow glow of its eyes was looking at the creature, possibly to scold it for blowing their cover.

Then another, smaller pair of dim yellow glows peeked out under a fold in the orc’s cloak before hurriedly being hidden again.

“I warned ye about the orcs,” Athrogate growled, reaching for his weapon.

Drizzt felt his own free hand drifting toward his sword, not that it would do much good at this distance.

“I don’t think she’s going to attack us,” Artemis commented, his eyes turned up to their surveyor. “Not now.”

“Bah,” Athrogate snorted, looking over his shoulder, “what makes ye so sure? Yer extensive knowledge o’ orcs?”

Artemis shot Athrogate a skeptical look, “My knowledge of _people._ She had the element of surprise and didn’t attack, she’s probably alone and thus outnumbered. And she has a child with her.”

Afafrenfere turned to look up the cliff, but found himself unable to see anything at all. “I still vote we go for nonthreatening and see if they just let us pass. Drizzt can keep an eye on her and if she tries anything funny, we’ll fight. But we don’t have time to dawdle and stand-off with the natives.”

Murmurs of disagreement followed, but the dwarves put their weapons away and started up again. Drizzt watched their surveyor as the moved, not blinking or averting his gaze. She watched him back, but made no moves for her weapon. Eventually she turned her bear and disappeared between two craggy outcroppings of stone.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Gromph ushered Andrzel into his office personally, which was a rare and unnerving surprise. Was every Baenre elder behaving strangely? Was it contagious?

“Quenthel will speak with me?” Gromph prompted as soon as they were in the archmage’s quarters.

“Yes,” Andrzel put his confusion into his voice, trying to ask a question with his answer and not seeming to forward about it. “She has been behaving strangely lately, though,” he commented. “I think the pressure is getting to her.”

Gromph was too busy rifling through a stack of notes on his desk, one on top seemed to be a letter, “Well, the pressure is about to get a lot worse, I can assure you.”

“How do you mean?”

The archmage, satisfied with the organization, or, rather, intentional disorganization, of his paperwork turned to answer him directly. “The tides are changing. Jarlaxle plans to pull his people out of the city. The Chosen has _fled_ and many are seeing that as a sign of House Baenre’s disfavor. There is a very likely chance that others will act against us soon.”

Andrzel scoffed, “We beat them into submission last time, we can do it again.”

“Not if they’re all united and Quenthel is incompetent.” Gromph countered, “By your own assessment she is not herself and the pressure of a city in chaos is making her crack. What happens when that chaos is turned as a weapon against her?”

The weapons’ master folded his arms across his chest and shifted uncomfortably, “You didn’t want to speak to her at all did you?”

“It took you this long to figure that out?” Andrzel scowled at him and Gromph met his gaze with an insulting look of his own.

“What are you planning?” the younger Baenre asked, growing concerned. “Some kind of coups?”

“I need to secure my assets. And I need someone on the inside to do it for me.” Gromph said, “With Tiago out of the picture the only one with the right connections and limited loyalty is you.”

“And if I don’t want this job.”

The archmage laughed a taunting little laugh, “Oh, Andrzel, you _will_ want this job.”

-0-0-0-0-0-

“Who are those people, Mama?” the small child in her lap peeked through a gap in her cloak to look at the small group of people led by two dwarves walking on the road below them.

She followed her son’s gaze, squinting to see details in the dark. Her mount huffed angrily at the command to slow down, fur bristling a little. The bear had never been fond of the mountains and the ranger couldn’t really say she was either. Too many dwarves, too much exposure. Better to stay under the cover of the brush in the woods where things were easy to manipulate. She lacked vantage points to observe her forest, though, within its thick clusters of trees and thickets. So, the mountains had to be traversed from time to time.

The group below wasn’t too large. She could probably pick off most of them with her bow before they spotted her, even with her antsy bear companion. Two dwarves, a tiefling that was little more than a waif, two steeds carrying equipment, two humans one injured to near-immobility, and a-

A dark elf.

A tightness formed in her chest as the details of the elf came into focus as she stared at him. Fur-lined cloak, simple armor, scimitars on either hip and a bow. Purple eyes glowing in the darkness.

Her mount made a restless noise that echoed in the still, unseasonably humid air. It caught the dwarves’ attention and they slowed their pace a bit.

“That one’s hurt,” the boy seated in front of her said, “should we help him, mama? He might die.”

She chewed her upper lip. “He has friends,” she told her son gently, “they will help him. But we will keep an eye on them just in case.” She tugged at her weathercloak to adjust it, blocking her son’s view of the travelers, “Stay hidden, pup. They don’t look friendly.”

When she looked back down, the purple eyes of the scourge were staring right at her. The orc prayed he hadn’t seen the boy.


	4. Prospects

The citizens gathered in the square just outside of the town hall. This gathering was earlier than that of the previous day, and the one before it. Or, at the very least, that was the commonly held belief among those who found themselves at the end of the lines.

Neverember’s men had taken hold of most the incoming goods and what little food was leftover from before the eclipse. Those who still had money possessed their own stashes, but the average laycitizen or peasant wound up in the line waiting for the men with swords to hand them their families’ ration for the day. They were running out of fresh things already. Soon they’d have to break into stale or dry goods. Men and women argued amongst themselves over who should get the last of what was fresh and whether or not it was unfair that someone got to eat two days in a row.

Hugo watched it all from the safety of a nearby business’s porch. He was still too short to try and bulldoze his way through the crowd, but the last few times he’d tried to sneak up he’d gotten spotted before he could make a move and had to turn back. It seemed better to linger and snatch something off a disgruntled peasant than try and tangle with the well-armed.

But no one was leaving the square. In fact, more people had arrived in the biggest gathering Hugo had seen thus far. It wasn’t a town meeting, he would have heard about that just like he had last time. If he had to guess, it seemed more like the beginnings of a mob.

One of the store-owners was the first to speak above the din caused by the shuffling of feet and angry voices. Hugo couldn’t hear him from so great a distance. Something about confiscation of goods and- too many other voices rose up in agreement of the first point for the boy to be able to hear the rest.

The captain of the guard suddenly appeared on the tall stand normally used for public hangings and other events that warranted spectators. He called for peace and order but was met only with angry voices. “We are just trying to help everyone equally,” he called down to them.

Another voice rose up, “Help _yourselves_ equally, that is.”

The rabble died down and turned to the newest member of their ranks with hushed murmurs. The woman stood not too far off from the group. At her side was a dark elf and behind them were two other women and young girl that couldn’t have been much older than Hugo. The one who had spoken took a step forward. She was a tall, shapely thing in functional clothing unlaced or torn in just the right places. Her short, dark hair was brushed out of her face, save for a long braid starting at her temple and draped around her neck like a scarf. Hugo couldn’t see her face from this distance as a large portion of the left side of her face was concealed by a black eyepatch. Even though he couldn’t place her name, the boy had a sneaking suspicion that he’d seen her before.

The captain was unshaken by the question and the sudden hush that fell over the townspeople. “No. We were ordered to take only necessary supplies so that they might be distributed fairly. Not bought up by some upstart and then sold for a king’s ransom to the needy who don’t have enough to live on to begin with.”

Shifting her weight, the woman made a disbelieving noise and looked about the crowd. “Strange. Because the way I see it, your men have been hording medicinal supplies for a while now and the sick have only gotten sicker.” She briefly inspected her nails before turning her full attention up at the captain, “One could almost say that you’re _stopping_ the people from getting those supplies so the sick and the elderly will die off sooner and you’ll have fewer people to scavenge to feed.”

“That’s not true-“ The captain tried to say, but the crowd’s attention fully belonged to the woman.

“I can’t say I blame you,” she continued, “If I were in your position I would probably do the same thing. The lord isn’t sending supplies anymore and soon you’ll have violence on your hands.”

A ripple of worried whispers drifted through the group. By the time it reached Hugo it had become “The lords have left us to die out here?”

“Caravans have travelled these roads from Waterdeep,” the woman kept on, addressing the crowd now, “And none have stopped here in recent days. Some even went to _Longsaddle_ and completely passed us by.” She turned back to the guards, “You expect us to believe you didn’t know?”

The flash of emotion that masked the captain’s face for a moment one could have blinked and missed betrayed the fact that he actually hadn’t known. When the crowd rounded on the poor man, Hugo knew he was the only one that saw the look.

“The Lord Neverember has not abandoned us,” the captain said, but his conviction was faltering, “supplies _will_ come.”

“Neverwinter looks like a lost cause to the lords,” the woman argued. “The destruction wrought by the primordial all those years ago, the earthquakes, the drow colony beneath our feet, the Dread Ring on our doorstep. They aren’t going to invest that kind of effort in this place. Who would?”

Growing angry, the captain shouted over the uproar of questions, “Just who in the Hells are you to make such wild accusations about the lord of this city?”

She smiled up at him and, with a low bow, introduced herself. “They call me The Raven. I run a guild in this city. And I believe that we cannot afford to wait for the lords to give us their charity. I have a business to run and it’s meaningless if everyone starves.”

“What would you have us do instead?” One of the voices in the crowd asked.

She tilted her head in the direction of the question and signaled her followers with a wave of her hand. They picked up sacks hidden on the ground behind them and moved into the crowd. All but one, Hugo noticed. The youngest girl picked up her bag and moved along the edge of the crowd toward the platform.

On a hunch, the boy stepped down from the porch and started weaving through the crowd to catch a glimpse of whatever it was she was doing. The whispers around him were a little disorienting at first. Some talking about the guildmembers handing out foodstuffs or money from those who hadn’t been reached yet, words of thanks from those that had.

“What are you doing?” The guard called down.

“What you could not,” the woman’s voice replied.

The dark skinned human that had been at the guildmaster’s side pocketed a coinpurse as a man passed a loaf of bread to his wife not too far from Hugo’s face.

He swerved to avoid two guards moving to stop members of the woman’s guild and ducked under the platform. His eyes scanned the crowd looking for the girl he’d seen earlier.

“ _Thief!”_

Hugo saw the girl bolt out from the town hall building where the guards were holding the stockpile. Her bag as still close to empty and two men with weapons drawn were chasing her. The crowd exploded looking around for this supposed thief. Many accused their friends and neighbors of taking more than they should have from the guild’s offering and demanded the person beside them put something back. The woman and her lieutenants tried to calm the people down, assuring that there was enough for everyone.

The boy didn’t hear of their success. He took off at a full run down a side alley, hoping to catch the girl before the guards did.

She was weaving through the buildings. A good strategy, but not good enough to get rid of her pursuers. Hugo scoured the road and properties around the buildings lining it until he found an unlocked cistern.

Now to catch the girl.

It wasn’t hard. Not for someone that knew the city as well as Hugo and with all the buildings empty and easy to cut through. He caught her by the arm as she ran passed and she took a few swings at him. “Hey!” He hissed, narrowly avoiding an elbow to the face, “I’m trying to help you-“

She continued to struggle and they crashed into a display shelf at the front of the store Hugo had pulled her into.

A sharp whistle not too far up the street. “She went this way!” one of the guards called.

Hugo managed to pull the poor girl along once she settled down and listened, “I know how to lose them.”

“I could have lost them without your help,” the girl growled, still attempting to pull her arm away.

Hugo pointed between two buildings to a portion of road just up the path she had been taking. Two more guards were waiting to intercept her.

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” the boy laughed, “Neverember’s men don’t mess around when it comes to thieves.”

He led her to the unlocked cistern at the back of the building and urged her down. She resisted at first, but, with the sound of heavy boots rushing through the store behind them, it didn’t last. He shut the lid behind them.

“They’ll jump down after us,” Hugo whispered when they stopped just around a corner. The cistern well squeaked open a short distance away. “But,” he picked up a small stone, took a few silent steps back around the corner and tossed it across the main tunnel and into a side passage as the guards made their way down the ladder.

“This way-“ the first guard said, leading the way after the noise.

When their footsteps were reduced to an echo, Hugo started leading the girl along again. “You guys are the ones that set up shop in the old inn, right?” he asked in a low whisper, just in case, “I can get you close.”

“I don’t need your help.” The girl snarled at him.

Hugo shrugged. “Fine, have it your way. All I wanted to do was stop you from getting arrested anyway.” He leaned against the wall to let her pass.

The girl brushed her hair out of her face and made an attempt to back track only to stop a few steps away. She stood there for a moment, thinking, then turned again. “Why did you help me?”

He smiled at her and she glared in return. “I told you. Neverember’s men don’t like thieves. Especially now. I wanted to help.”

“What’s the real reason?” the girl ask, glare turning to a coy smirk.

Hugo tilted his head, ready to feign innocence, but thought better. “I want in.”

“Excuse me?”

The boy held out his hands, “I want in on this thing of yours.” He stepped off from the wall and approached her, “I’ve seen what you guys have done with the inn, but you don’t know the city or its people half as well as I do. You guys might have won over the people now, but that’s not going to mean much if the guards start throwing up barricades.”

She made a face at him. “How old are you? _Ten?_ Surely we can find someone more _useful_ than you.”

Hugo bit his lip, resisting the urge to childishly bite back, “I’m _twelve_ thanks for asking. And did I not just help you not get your hand cut off? Because that’s what they do to thieves here. How is that not useful?”

“You’re a _child._ ”

“So are _you_ , princess.” This time the urge was too strong. “You also got _caught_. Which is something that hasn’t happened to me yet.” He lifted the hem of his shirt and pulled out a very large, very ornate looking knife. It was well crafted and looked extremely heavy. “I plucked it off the gear for the group of heroes that came to stop the earthquakes. A dark elf, a couple dwarves, and their friends. They were good to me when they were here, but it ain’t easy for orphans in this place.”

The girl’s smug look faded away at the sight of the metal. It caught the glittering orange light of the streetlamps that drifted through the sewer grates and dazzled her for a moment. “What do you plan to do with it?”

“I was hoping to sell it when the merchants came back,” Hugo admitted, “once the earthquakes stopped. But then all this mess happened and now I’m holding on to it for defense.”

“What’s your name?” She asked as he put the dirk away.

“Hugo.”

“Glenda,” she said. “I don’t know if I can promise you what you’re asking for. But I can put in a good word for you with The Raven. She might be willing to take you. I think she’s got a soft spot for kids in dire straits.”

He nodded, “Okay. Now, what’s in the bag? Er- what _should be_ in the bag?” He pointed to it and saw that she’d managed to snag something, “You raid the medicine storehouse?”

“Tried to. Raven wrote a list of things she wanted me to fetch but I could barely get in the door. I did manage to snag this,” Glenda reached into her bag and pulled out a rather large, tarnished, key. “I don’t know what it’s to, if it’s to anything.”

Hugo let her keep it. He didn’t know what it was for either. “I think I might know a way in. Give me a day and meet me at the old temple. I’ll show you.”

“Why not go now?” She asked, “The guards?”

“I dunno if the way is still open. The earthquakes…” he paused, closed his eyes, and chewed the inside of his cheek to stay focused around the imagined sound of his home collapsing on his mother. A deep breath and when he opened his eyes Glenda was giving him a slightly worried look. “the earthquakes destroyed a lot of things.”

“Okay,” Glenda agreed. It sounded like she could tell there was more to the statement, but she took enough pity on the boy not to ask questions. “You said you could get me close to the guildhouse?”

Hugo nodded, his voice suddenly abandoning him, and led her back to her allies. Hopefully she’d keep her word and get him a place in that guild.

It would be nice to have a consistent and warm place to sleep again.

-0-0-0-0-0-

After much complaining from the trio walking in tandem, the dwarves were finally convinced to stop. It was Ambergris that caved first, particularly when Afafrenfere kept playing the “he’s injured and this could make it worse” card. They found a shadowy place surrounded on two sides by a rocky outcropping a short distance from the road to set up camp for a time.

Artemis and Effron stayed off to the side as the rest of the group set things up, despite Artemis’s protests that he wasn’t completely useless. Afafrenfere told him that the group had decided his usefulness while he was unconscious and could only be overturned if he ran to get firewood. The monk had a rock thrown at him, but the assassin stopped protesting. Effron lingered with him partly because he wanted to make sure Artemis didn’t strain his leg behind their backs and because he had apparently injured himself the last time they’d set up camp and couldn’t be trusted. Every time someone tried to tell the story, the warlock would either cough loudly or interrupt with a loud reminder of something they needed to do.

At the dwarves’ urging, the camp they set up wasn’t elaborate. Really nothing more than a few bedrolls, a fire pit, and a tarp to store their gear under or duck under in case it started to rain suddenly. Something easy to pack up and move first thing. Artemis was set up under the makeshift tent with the gear and everyone gathered around him to eat and wind down from the hike. Drizzt and Afafrenfere even went out of their ways to stack a few of the packs up so Artemis could sit comfortably, much to the assassin’s many protests.

“I don’t need nursemaids, damn it.”

“Shut up and let us take care of you,” Drizzt countered.

“I can-“

Afafrenfere shushed him, “It makes _us_ rest a little easier. Suffer through the pampering you ass.”

Artemis just huffed and let them take care of him after that.

One of the packs came unlaced and fell open as Afafrenfere was moving it and several books of varying sizes tumbled into the dust making little clouds around their edges. Effron’s things. He moved to put them all back, but curiosity got the better of him and he quickly thumbed through one as he moved it.

It was empty.

He flipped through another one. Also empty. A third, empty. “Hey, Eff,” he called over his shoulder as he went to put the last book, different from all the others in size and binding, away, “Why do you carry around so many empty books?”

“Why are you going through my stuff without permission?” Effron replied. He didn’t sound offended, just mildly annoyed.

“My roguish nature?” Afafrenfere turned and said with a shrug that knocked a few pieces of parchment loose from the tome he was holding. He laughed nervously when Effron glared at him.

“Can your ‘roguish nature’ be gentler with my things, please?” the warlock teased.

“Sorry.”

“The books are for notes on the Sundering among other things worth taking notes on,” Effron explained, “We’ve been living, literally, under a rock for about a while so I haven’t had time to do any real studying and note taking. The one in your hand, that you so carelessly emptied, is for my sketches unrelated to the notes.”

Afafrenfere hurriedly, but carefully lest he be yelled at by Effron, returned the loose sketches to their container, looking at a few in the process. “Sketches? _You_ drew these?” He asked, holding a very detailed sketch of Guenhwyar by the edges. It looked so real the monk almost thought he could pet it. “These are amazing.”

“Those were only done in a few hours,” Effron said, shifting forward to try and see which picture the monk was looking at from his place at the other side of the fire, “You should see what I can do in a day.”

Afafrenfere turned the page over to show Ambergris and Athrogate and then Drizzt and Artemis on the other side.

“I didn’t know you sketched, Effron,” Artemis commented.

“I have hobbies other than being a jerk, Entreri.”

“Could have fooled me.”

Drizzt elbowed him in the arm. He was too far away to reach the assassin’s ribs.

Afafrenfere put the sketch back in at the end of the filled section, which only made up less than a quarter of the whole book. “It’s nearly empty,” he commented, tucking it back in Effron’s pack.

“I would rather use my old ones that were specifically made for travel and rough handling, but I had to get new ones in Port Llast when we stopped for a few weeks,” the warlock replied. “I left all of my books at Draygo’s castle and it’s hard to find well-made books that are empty around here.”

The group all turned their eyes to Effron in a brief moment of shared sympathy. Many had forgotten how much of his life was still in the Shadowfell and could not be retrieved. It didn’t seem to bother him much though.

“Is that why ye want to go to Silvermoon so badly?” Ambergris asked, “To replace some o’ yer stuff?”

“Partly,” Effron admitted, “they’ll have better quality academic supplies than a port. I also want to do a little research while I’m there.”

“Research?” Athrogate grumbled, “Draggin’ us through orc territory fer _research?_ ”

The warlock scowled at him, “I believe that it’ll be invaluable to know who is going to be making their moves now that the gods are gone. They left once before and it’s heavily documented. Since I can’t go all the way to Candlekeep, or back to Draygo’s library, Silverymoon is the next best place.”

“Plus,” Afafrenfere cut in, “We’ve only seen _one_ orc the entire time we’ve been travelling and she didn’t even come near us. I don’t think they’re patrolling the roads right now, what with everything that’s going on.”

The dwarves and the ranger all looked at him.

“They could be settin’ up an ambush.” Athrogate replied.

“Oh will you can it with that racist garbage,” Afafrenfere groaned in frustration. “The orcs have a _city_ here. A _city._ You know, with laws and codes. Can you not believe for _one second_ that a race capable of constructing a functioning city is also capable of _not killing_ people that don’t mean them harm.”

“I don’t know what kind of orcs you have in Damara,” Drizzt said before Athrogate could bite out a reply, “but the ones here are not the diplomatic type.”

Afafrenfere didn’t like that answer, “How do you know? When was the last time you even _encountered_ an orc in this area? _Decades ago?_ People change with times, and I hear Many Arrows is relatively prosperous and has been leaving the dwarves alone now that they’ve been allowed to settle.”

Drizzt pulled his mouth into a tight, thin line. “People like that don’t change.”

“By that logic we should lump you in with the rest of the dark elves,” Artemis countered.

The comment stung Drizzt more than he thought it would, mostly because of the look that came with it. “That’s different.”

“Not really,” Afafrenfere scoffed. “You’re saying that races can’t change. That they have to fit whatever norm was established dozens if not hundreds of years ago. If dark elves can change and make lives on the surface like you or Jarlaxle, who is to say that orcs can’t be civilized?”

Drizzt sighed, “I fought in the war. I saw what they did to people. The raids and the slaughter. If that race has any hope of changing it will take much longer than it has been.”

The monk shifted his weight. His voice was tight as if he was fighting the urge to say something different, “I suppose we’ll have to agree to disagree then. Now isn’t the time for debates. We all need rest.”

“Agreed,” Ambergris said, before either Drizzt or Athrogate could get the last word on the matter. “let’s lay out guard shifts.” She turned to the monk and added, “There’s more than just orcs in this forest.”

-0-0-0-0-0-

Kimmuriel held up the open letter as Jarlaxle entered. “They gave it to me and I thought it was mine until I started reading it.” He stopped writing in his ledger for a moment, rested his elbows on the table and rubbed his forehead. “All this paperwork is making my eyes blur.” He’d been working on budgeting for the new building for ages and there was still so much work to do and not nearly enough money to pay for it, even with Jarlaxle’s thieves stealing everything they could get their hands on.

“That’s the price of moving shop,” the mercenary laughed, taking the letter, “What does it say?”

The psionicist sighed, “Valas says that Do’Urden and the human made it to the surface and their allies. They haven’t moved as of the time he wrote the letter, but he’s sure they’ll set out westward soon and he’ll send word when they get to a city.” He looked up and made a face, “He says a lot of the nearby cities have curfews or locked gates so their finding a place may prove difficult unless they travel quite a distance.”

Jarlaxle made a small dissatisfied noise and read over the letter himself. Sure enough, it said exactly what Kimmuriel said it had, just with a small list of potential future locations at the bottom and a little “Say hello to sourpuss for me” and a hilarious, though crude, drawing of Kimmuriel making a face similar to the one he was leveling at his guildmaster presently.

“What? Don’t trust me?” Kimmuriel joked.

“I’d be right to,” Jarlaxle quipped back. “But no, that’s not it.”

Oblodra rolled his eyes, “More secrets, I assume?” When Jarlaxle nodded he just sighed and went back to work. “I suppose I earned this. Any news on how the underground barracks are working out. We’ve only gotten a few waves and people are complaining that it’s already getting too cramped to sleep. More are bound to be here in a day or so.” He turned a page and then added under his breath with a bit of a grumble, “Though why they’re complaining to _me_ and not _you_ is beyond me.”

“Someone seems to have convinced them that _you_ were the guildmaster,” Jarlaxle said, not letting the snooty comment go uncontested. “I wonder how they would have gotten that idea into their heads.”

“Probably through the same person that ensured I ceased to be guildmster,” was Kimmuriel’s retort. Jarlaxle didn’t reply and when Kimmuriel looked up he could see it was because he was leveling a mockingly wide grin at him. “Shoo.” He waved his quill at the man, “If you want this done soon you’ll let me work in peace. Especially since you are so insistenton working with pirates.”

“They seem like perfectly fine people,” Jarlaxle said over his shoulder as he left.

Kimmuriel glared at him as he shut the door before calling, “Just because you dress the same way doesn’t mean they act like-“ he stopped, “Oh, who am I kidding? They act just like you, Jarlaxle.” With another sigh and a quick rub to his burning eyes, Kimmuriel got back to work.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Gentle fingers combed through his hair, lifting it from the back of his neck. Those feather light touches inched down his neck and across his shoulder. Drizzt shuddered a bit and rolled his shoulder to try and ease away the gooseflesh left in the wake of those touches. He missed this already, the warmth and simple touches under cover of darkness.

His mind abruptly snapped into focus. Missed? Wait, that was right. Artemis had pulled away from him.

The imagined hands on his skin disappeared. Only cold air remained to drift across his skin and make him shiver a little.

This was going to take some adjustment, he knew. The drow sighed through his nose and shifted a little to get comfortable enough to drift back to sleep very aware of the absence at his side. Or he tried to shift. His limbs felt so heavy all he managed to successfully do was roll onto his back. Even tilting his head was difficult. Was he tangled? Did something lie on him? Confused, Drizzt opened his eyes.

Nothing was holding him down as far as he could see without being able to move his head all that much. He tried moving his fingers, his arms, but his body refused to respond.

Leaves crunched beneath heavy boots a short distance away. Drizzt’s eyes snapped to the noise instinctually.

Something shifted in the blackness. A distant light. Possibly Afafrenfere’s light source? Wasn’t he keeping watch? The light shifted toward him, grew slightly larger, and split. It was a pale purple, hovering high above him in two small orbs. Eyes watching him and drawing closer.

Drizzt felt a chill like a bucket of cold water dumped over him. It was the creature from the Pit. He couldn’t make out the details or the shape or details at first, and struggled to get his darkvision to comply, but he could tell. When he could finally see it, the creature was standing at the ranger’s hip, looming over him.

The drow struggled to move, to get away, to wake someone, to get his weapons. But he was stuck. His body would not so much as twitch despite the orders his brain was screaming at him.

The wraith drew one of its weapons.

Drizzt’s heart thudded against his chest, agreeing with his brain that now would be a good time to move. He sucked in deep and hurried breaths. He couldn’t get away. He couldn’t fight back. No one would know.

The creature laughed at him, lifted the blade high, and plunged it into Drizzt’s chest. Not knowing what else to do, Drizzt snapped his eyes shut and waited for the blow to land.

But nothing happened.

When he opened his eyes again, the creature wasn’t standing over him anymore. His limbs responded, though sluggish, when he told them to move. Shaking a little, he pulled Twinkle from its scabbard and called on its light to look around. The creature was gone.

Drizzt lowered the blade and ran a hand through his hair. A dream? It had felt so real.

“Drizzt?”

The ranger started at the sound. But it was only Afafrenfere kneeling next to him. The monk rested a hand on his shoulder. “What happened?”

Drizzt tried to laugh it off, but found himself too shaken for laughter. “Nothing. Just- just a strange dream. It shook me up a little, but I’m alright now.”

“You sure?” The human did little to hide his worry.

The drow nodded.

Afafrenfere didn’t seem very convinced, but he didn’t have much to argue with. “Well, try and get back to sleep. Ambergris and I are up keeping watch if you need us.”

Drizzt forced out what he thought was a genuine-looking smile. “I’m fine, really. But thank you.”

The monk nodded, patted him on the shoulder, and rose to leave. Drizzt saw the dull orange glow of Afafrenfere’s torch linger on the edge of his vision. When it finally left, Drizzt sheathed his weapon and sank back down onto his bedroll.

Sleep did not return.


	5. Observations

They had a pack mentality. Always did they travel in a group with only one or two branching off ahead or to the side to look for danger. The injured human and the dark elf seemed to be their leaders. The human more so it seemed. The others deferred to and took direction from them. Every time they came back from scouting the dwarves reported to the human despite his injury. It was as if both were unlikely candidates for leadership but an obvious injury was the lesser evil. It made the ranger wonder what was so wrong with the other leader that wasn’t readily prevalent.

From what she could tell, the dwarves were both fighters. But then again, all dwarves looked like fighters from a distance. The injured man, judging by the way he endured pain, must have been some form of soldier or mercenary; the darkness of his clothing betrayed a roguish lean. The other human, a bit taller but no less lithe and spry wasn’t heavily armed, a rogue himself, she guessed. In the back, the tall, horned fellow didn’t seem much in the way of physical threat, but the ranger could smell magic on him even at the great distance at which she observed them.

But the dark elf left her puzzled.

The stories always said that the Scourge of the North; a dark elf with purple eyes, allied with dwarves and companioned by a great, black hunting cat was a ranger. She’d seen the eyes, the cat, the dwarves, but no rangering. In fact, he was decked out in mostly metal armor at times and the bow he carried was pitiful at best. At no time did he stop and pick up healing herbs as they passed them on the road, even though the man leaning against his side could have benefitted from them. He spent no time at camp hunting or laying traps.

Nothing about this elf spoke “ranger.” Perhaps, the orc wondered as she watched the group slow in the presence of a caravan at a road crossing, she had been wrong in her assessment and this was not the same man. Could he be the Scourge’s son, having inherited his father’s objects? Was she wrong in judging him so quickly? Doubts swirled in her mind and she wondered if perhaps the stories were more incomplete than she feared.

Her doubts did nothing to quell her need to observe, however. If nothing else, she could uncover some idea of who this elf was and what his presence heralded.

The group joined up with the caravan, made up mostly of humans and dwarves themselves. The injured man on the dark elf’s side was allowed to sit and rest in one of the carts of goods. Even though he protested needed to be cared for in such a way, the sigh of relief he gave as he sat was evident even to the distant observer.

“See, pup?” she whispered to the boy seated before her, squinting to watch the events unfold, “I told you.”

The boy gave her a smile, slightly lopsided around his growing tusks. She ruffled his hair, happy that soon the group would be out of her forest for good.

Caravans were not fond of the wilderness.

 

-0-0-0-0-0-

Draygo leaned back in his chair at the far side of the tent and admired his handiwork thus far. The construct still wasn’t near completion. He’d lost so much time grafting the glassteel plate to his own chest. Now he had to work double time just to keep up with, and temper, Validra.

Why had Szass Tam placed her in charge anyway? What did he see in her? She was unhinged and dangerous. Impatient despite her unlife and infinite time. Her forces were already spread out in thin search parties all the way into the trollmoors.

The trollmoors weren’t even _connected_ to Neverwinter Wood.

Were they?

As much as the idea of ghoul’d trolls seemed like one that could benefit them in the long run, needlessly sending ghouls into unclaimed territory without necromancers to control them was foolhardy on a good day. And right now, none of Draygo Quick’s days were good.

He watched his construct lumber around and test its new arm after he commanded it to rise again. The graft wasn’t taking too well, and soon the old warlock knew, he may have to come up with a better idea. His corpse might have been of an Outsider, but that didn’t seem to make it totally compatible with the limbs of extra planar creatures.

At least he had a place to store it as he worked. Draygo was thankful for that. He had been allowed to bring the Evercasket with him when they moved all of his work to Neverwinter Wood just before Szass Tam confiscated his castle. He’d always hated the names Effron gave his inventions. They were so trite and bland. Nevertheless, the enormous black box and others like it had proven their worth a dozen times already.  Something good had to come out of having a lame traitor for an apprentice, even if the thought of the misshapen tiefling made Draygo’s blood boil.

The construct made a series of noises in Quick’s direction. The attempt at words was nearly laughable. So much so, the necromancer considered not bothering to reconstruct its beaten, pulpy face just so it couldn’t talk at him anymore. It had been so chatty in life. So disobedient.

Well, this is what disobedience to Draygo Quick got you.

He commanded the creature to lie back on the altar and stop making noises at him. It resisted a little, but ultimately obeyed his request.

He had more important work to take care of now.

Draygo gathered his things and his staff, which really wasn’t more than a glorified walking stick, and headed out of his tent.

The young Thayan newcomers were lined up at the edge of the camp yelling at their slaves to move remains faster. A couple of them even had whips. Draygo found the whole display barbaric. There were much more subtle ways of manipulating others that didn’t involve giving one’s superiors a headache. But, he supposed, that’s the way they did things in Thay.

He found the small group of generals expecting him at the entrance to the structure they had built up around the Dread Ring. It was a little temple of sorts; tall, dark spires blending in with the backdrop of the forest. Smaller than Valindra’s tower, the building was humble by all standards, but it was still more impressive than Draygo’s tent. Silently, the generals led him inside.

There was only one room in the structure, a wide circular chamber with a high ceiling, open wide at its center in a strange triangular pattern. Had there been daylight, or even moonlight, the opening would have cast the symbol directly into the Ring. But, for now, no such light was available. Along the sides of the building were rows of caskets, that seemed to double as chairs for now. Complex constructs waiting for the signal from their master to rise and attack.

“I was summoned?” Draygo asked as the generals dispersed around him. Several tattooed heads turned toward him.

“Yes, you were,” the voice responding came from swirling smoke wafting within the confines of the Ring. A voice Draygo was becoming uncomfortably familiar with.

“Szass Tam,” he greeted, trying not to let his annoyance show too much in his voice.

“Valindra says you haven’t been very productive.” The lich’s voice accused.

Draygo rolled his eyes, “Validra says a lot of things that either aren’t true, don’t make sense, or both. I would not trust her word.”

“Which is why you have been called here.”

Quick leaned heavily against his staff, keenly aware of all the eyes on him. Szass Tam hadn’t sent many necromancers to build the army by Draygo’s count, but they all seemed to hover around him exclusively. “Oh?” He stalled, not wanting to say the wrong thing and have Szass Tam do unspeakable things to that piece of opal he’d taken with him.

The opal linked to Draygo’s soul.

“Yes,” Szass Tam’s voice droned, “Valindra reports that you have not only been, quote, ‘lazy and unmanageable’ but that you’ve been hindering our progress.”

“I have done no such thing,” Draygo spat, outraged at the accusation. Eyes glared at him on all sides and he faltered. “I disagree with her methods. I believe we should fortify our numbers before branching out so intensely. She’s sent ghouls all over the place, it will not be long before we are found out and troops come marching in. Clerics or no, we are too few in number to take on city armies. We’re too thin to even invade Neverwinter and it’s a ghost town!” He took a breath and shifted his weight, “I think she is being reckless and foolhardy. I do not wish to hinder our mission, I only want it done right.”

“As do I, Draygo,” Szass Tam replied, unfazed, “I respect your temperance as well as her initiative. This is why I’ve placed you together.”

The old warlock muttered a series of curses under his breath. Of course the lich would put them together just so they would butt heads. He probably watched all of their interactions from a crystal ball in his comfortable tower in Thay and laughed at their expense whenever possible.

“When do you think,” Szass Tam asked, he seemed to be musing more than looking for answers, “would be best time to invade? To send troops out into the wilds and conquer?”

Draygo considered his answer. “When we know our base is fortified in case of retaliation,” he said, “When we know we can hold Neverwinter even if others come to its aid.”

“And when is that?” the lich’s voice contained a hint of laughter, “On your say so? When you construct is finished? When the forest is full to bursting?”

The warlock rocked back. “It is hard to say.” He pondered the question. “We would need something we knew would tip the scales in our favor if something went wrong.”

“A failsafe.” Szass Tam supplied.

“Your people have failed here once before. You do not want them to fail again.”

“No I do not,” the lich agreed, “which is why I am sending you a special project.”

Draygo felt sick. “And what is that?”

“Something to turn the tides in our favor no matter what. Something big and powerful.”

The warlock tilted is head, suddenly curious in spite of his better judgment. “You’re sending me a giant to animate?”

“ _Bigger._ ”

-0-0-0-0-0-

Seeing safety in numbers, the dwarves didn’t argue with the other four’s decision to throw in with the first caravan they encountered. Upon seeing Artemis’s wounds, the leader of the caravan, a young man named Bertram who could have arguably been the youngest person present, allowed the assassin to take refuge on one of their wagons of goods. Grateful to get off his feet, Artemis didn’t complain about the cramped space that smelled suspiciously of old meat and moldy bread.

The others looked after the assassin in shifts. Effron went first, more to avoid the distrustful stares and vague insults hidden under coughs. He checked the stitching in the man’s skin and pressed a cool, damp cloth to the wound to help lessen the swelling, not that it did much.

Ambergris went next, then Afafrenfere, then Athrogate. Finally, Drizzt took up the empty space in the wagon across from him. Artemis suggested the both get some sleep, particularly since he was dozing off anyway. The ranger agreed, settling in on the opposite side of the wagon.

Hours later, Artemis woke with a start when the wagon hit a particularly nasty bump in the road and jarred his injured leg. He tensed, teeth grinding together, and struggled to catch his breath as shards of invisible glass dug into his thigh. “I never thought I’d miss magic this much,” he joked under his breath, trying to get his mind off the tightness in his throat and the burn in his eyes. “ _Clerical_ magic no less.”

Drizzt laughed a little at the comment, “That means a lot coming from you.”

The assassin snapped his attention at the elf. “How long have you been awake?”

Drizzt didn’t look like he’d slept at all. For days. His hair was frizzed and messy, his eyes weren’t focusing in the right places, every movement he made seemed sluggish. Just like their trip to Longsaddle after Artemis’s fall in Ashenglade.

Artemis was suddenly hit with the realization that he was getting injured more and more the longer he was around the dark elf. Just like all that betrayal nonsense with Jarlaxle. The old Calimshan adage of dark elves being unlucky came to mind and he would have laughed.

Would have had Drizzt not looked so terrible not five feet away from him.

“I’m fine, Artemis,” the elf said, trying to wave off the human’s concerns, “you have more important things to worry abo-“

“You haven’t been sleeping.” Artemis interrupted again. “Bad things happen when you don’t sleep.”

Drizzt made a face, “We’re in the wilderness, in orc territory. I’m on edge. When we get to the city I’ll-“

“That’s not good enough.” Again, Entreri interrupted him. “You’re with a caravan, everyone’s sleeping in shifts. Rest now while you can. You need it.”

“I’m fi-“

“No you aren’t.”

“Will you let me finish speaking?” Drizzt snapped at him. He sighed, unable to maintain frustration in the face of a friend’s concern. “I know it’s worrying, alright? I know.”

Artemis backed off a little. “Why can’t you sleep? Really.” When Drizzt gave him a look, Entreri clarified, “You’re a ranger. You should be at home in the woods and surrounded by animals and all that noise I never understood. Why are you unable to sleep in your element?”

“I’m more aware of the danger I guess,” Drizzt answered with a shrug. “It’s like the underdark up here now, but with the added danger of trees.”

“Trees are dangerous?” Artemis laughed.

“Have you ever fought one?”

“Not on purpose.”

Drizzt tilted his head and blinked at him for a moment. That was not the answer he was expecting. “Anyway,” he said, not really wanting to know that story just yet, “it’s nothing to worry about yet.”

“What’s nothing to worry about?” Ambergris’s voice called up from the open back of the wagon. Afafrenfere’s head peeked around the side soon after.

Drizzt tried to answer with, “Noth-“

But Artemis, yet again, cut him off, “He hasn’t been sleeping.”

“What?” Both dwarf and man asked with worried looks. The followed those looks with more questions like, “Why not?” and “Is it the nightmares again?” And Drizzt grew more and more frustrated.

“Stop. Okay? Just stop.” He spat.

Ambergris and Afafrenfere grew quiet. They cast looks at Artemis then back at Drizzt and backed off. When they were gone, Drizzt sighed heavily and buried his face in his hands.

“You know,” Effron’s voice said through the boards behind them. How long had he been standing at the side of the cart? “We can’t help you if you don’t talk to us. Or if you lie.”

“I’m not lying,” Drizzt growled.

Effron stopped walking long enough for the cart to pass him. “Oh? If that’s so then tell me why you drew your weapon on _nothing_ the other night.”

Drizzt’s heart sank. Had Effron seen that? Had Afafrenfere told him? Out of the corner of his eye, Drizzt could see Artemis fold his arms and glare at him like a disapproving parent.

“You haven’t slept since,” Effron continued, despite Drizzt’s silent pleas for him to stop. “We want to help you. We don’t want anyone else to get hurt, _including you,_ but you’re making it difficult. We aren’t doing these things to get on your nerves. Aff and Amber, they come on strong, but that’s just their way.”

“Nothing happened,” Drizzt said weakly.

“ _Drizzt._ ” Artemis wasn’t having any more of this.

“I had a nightmare,” the drow confessed, pressed too hard and backed too into the corner he’d placed himself in. “Okay? And no,” he turned to Effron, “It wasn’t of the forest in the Pit. Just-“ he stammered a bit. “The monster I saw there.”

Artemis and Effron shared a look Drizzt couldn’t recognize.

“I woke up, everything was quiet,” he explained, “I tried to go back to sleep, but I couldn’t move. That’s when I saw it, coming toward me. I tried to reach for my weapons, or something but I was paralyzed and it- Well, it stabbed me. It was terrifying” He sighed, “When I opened my eyes, it was gone and I could move again.”

“Did it say anything?” Effron asked, when Drizzt looked desperately between the two of them.

“No-“ he stumbled over words, “Maybe? I- I don’t remember.”

“Regardless,” Artemis said, “that isn’t a good reason for you to not sleep at all. You’re weakening yourself over nothing.”

“It isn’t like I haven’t tried to sleep, Artemis,” Drizzt retorted, “I just couldn’t –er- can’t.”

Effron’s sharp teeth worried his lip a moment before he said, more to himself than to anyone else, “Perhaps more drastic measures need to be taken.”

“More drati-“ Drizzt started, “No. No! One poisoning was enough,” he cast a pointed glare at Artemis, “thank you.”

“Hey, it worked didn’t it?”

Their argument was cut short by a loud, high pitched whistle from the front of the caravan and all the carts ground to a halt.

“What is your business here?” A voice shouted at them.

Drizzt hopped down from the back of the cart before anyone could stop him. They’d made it to the gates of Silverymoon. The _closed_ gates.

“We are merchants,” the young caravan leader called back. “We seek to do business here. I don’t think our wares will be able to make it to another town.”

The guards talked among themselves for some time. “I’m sorry,” one called down, “We cannot let you in.”

Another member of the caravan started in alarm, “Surely your people must be starving! We bring food and medicine.”

“Stolen goods no doubt,” Drizzt heard the guard say, but he wasn’t sure if the humans heard it too. “Our people are taken care of,” the guard yelled down to them, “Thank you for your concern, but move on.”

The guards and the caravan leaders went back and forth for quite a while, until eventually the young man and his crew were forced to give up or be shot at.

“Wait!” Drizzt shouted, attempting to get the guards’ attention. “Let us in.”

“On a dark elf’s say so?” The guard laughed.

“I am Drizzt Do’Urden. I am a friend of Mithril Hall and this city.” Drizzt said, “I can vouch for this caravan. Please, let us in.”

The guards looked at each other and laughed, “Do you think us so foolish, coalskin?”

Drizzt’s heart sank for the second time that day.

“Drizzt Do’Urden is a ranger dressed in fur and Mithril bearing the holy symbol of Mielikki. You possess none of these things. And we do not take kindly to imposters pretending to be heroes. Especially ones with so terrible a disguise.”

The elf’s hand instinctively went to his collar to produce the ivory trinket, but his neck was bare but for his whistle. That was right. He’d broken it.

The dark elves had taken his armor.

“I _am_ Drizzt Do’Urden,” Drizzt said with more conviction. “Time may have changed me from legend, but I am still the same hero I was once.” He held his ground despite their disbelieving looks.

The two men at the top of the wall conferred among themselves.

“One o’ our men is injured!” Ambergris called behind the elf. “He needs bedrest and safety. He can’t make another journey.”

“What would your lady think,” Drizzt added, “if you sent a person in need away? If you denied your sick medicine all because you don’t like the way we look.”

That seemed to get their attention. “Alright,” one said, tentative, “You may enter, but stick to trade districts. And if so much as _one_ of you is caught doing _anything_ out of line, I’ll put you in the stocks myself.”

The gates slowly swung open to allow them passage.

Bertram rode up beside Drizzt as the caravan passed through, “Thank you for the assistance, but you did not need to lie on our behalf.” He was called away before Drizzt could respond.

“I was not lying.” Drizzt said to the empty space anyway.

The caravan set up at the first inn they found. Drizzt and his company decided to look for space elsewhere after accepting the meager payment Bertram and the others insisted on offering them. Something closer to the temples and libraries so Effron might carry on his research without having to cross the city, and Ambergris could confer with other clerics about healing options.

 


	6. Turning of the Wheel

Kimmuriel tapped his fingers against Jarlaxle’s desk as he waited for the mercenary leader to return. The office was surprisingly small, not much bigger than Kimmuriel’s own, and was made even more cramped by the sheer amount of _things_ Jarlaxle kept in it. How anyone could conduct business in such cramped confines baffled the psionicist to no end.

When Jarlaxle finally did return he didn’t seem surprised at all to see Kimmuriel standing there. “What is it?”

Kimmuriel considered his options for answers. “The newest wave of people just arrived this morning.” He announced. The psionicist pushed off from the desk, picking up a small envelope as he did so. “And you’re still in contact with Gromph?”

“Am I?” Jarlaxle asked, giving an amused look at the folded message in Kimmuriel’s hand.  He took it, and with deft flick of his fingers, broke the wax seal to open it.

Kimmuriel watched in tense silence as Jarlaxle read the words. He couldn’t enter Jarlaxle’s thoughts to see what the letter said, nor could he make sense of the gibberish he could see through the parchment. So, he waited, as patiently as he could, for Jarlaxle to relay the information to him and tell him how he planned to deal with it.

When he finished reading, Jarlaxle’s pocketed the parchment, moved to his desk and sat without a word. Kimmuriel watched him closely. Eventually, the mercenary leader spoke to him, “You can leave now. Thank you for the report.”

The psionicist narrowed his eyes, “That’s it?” When Jarlaxle started nod Kimmuriel didn’t stop talking, “That can’t be- What did Gromph want?”

“It doesn’t concern you.”

“How does it not-“ Kimmuriel started to ask in mild outrage, but quickly regained his composure. “You’ve tasked me with maintaining the financial stability of the guild and forwarding its move to the surface. Yet when someone as important as Gromph Baenre throws himself into the mix, I’m not entitled to know what’s going on and plan for it? Is that the logic I’m seeing here?” He placed his hands on the exposed pieces of oak on Jarlaxle’s desk. “Is it because you’re still bitter that I tried to save your guild from you? Don’t think I haven’t noticed-“

Jarlaxle, resting his elbows on the desk and lacing his fingers together, leaned forward, “No. It’s not bitterness that drives my actions. Though, if we’re being honest, and you do _crave_ honesty, don’t you? The truth is I don’t _trust_ you.

“You have proven yourself more than capable of betraying me. You succeeded, albeit for only a few days, where so very many before you have failed. The man who started this with me could not wrench it from my grasp and yet you managed to take it from me.” Jarlaxle laughed.

“I taken measures to prove my loyalty,” Kimmuriel protested, but the mercenary leader stopped him before he could get too far with a click of his tongue.

“You have taken measures to convey the _image_ of loyalty,” Jarlaxle corrected, “But that I know what you are capable of it will be very difficult to earn my trust again. I do not like to play games of this caliber. Low-level drow politicking and games of betrayal and influence are beneath me at this point.”

The mercenary leader relaxed in his chair. Despite the ostentatious hat and other gaudy apparel, he was the image of business, “So you, and everyone else I preside over, are going to act on the information _I provide them._ And not a modicum more. This operation needs to go smoothly and I can’t afford the time to worry about getting knifed in the back. If I could, I would have forced Tiago to stay with us. I would have told the mercenaries we were standing our ground in Menzoberranzan. I would have involved Gromph more directly.” He shook his head, “But I will do none of those things. This enterprise is mine to protect in times like this.”

“You weren’t there during the war,” Kimmuriel accused, “Did it not need protecting then?”

Jarlaxle arched an eyebrow, “Mercenaries should thrive in times of war, especially if travelling is unnecessary. What this is, is a hostile uprising. This is more than the Spider Queen’s game. It is upheaval, and we won’t know for sure if it is profitable until we know that there will be a Menzoberranzan to return to. Change _will_ come this time. And it won’t be pretty.”

The standing drow rocked back to stand straighter. “And you use this to justify not giving you lieutenants the information they need?”

“You have all the information you need, Kimmuriel, just not what you _desire._ I thought you psion types were trained to quell personal desires,” Jarlaxle joked, “Our business for the day is done here, Kimmuriel, now leave.”

He wanted to argue more, to demand being let in on the plan of action more fully, but he knew Jarlaxle was not willing to be reasoned with. At least not by him. Without another word, Kimmuriel turned on his heel and left. He waited until the door shut behind him to start seething so intensely anyone that came even remotely close to him on his way to his office either stopped dead in their tracks, or turned around and chose a different route.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Andrzel had asked for their assistance hours ago and, much to his surprise, many priestesses readily gave it. The sheer amount of women that appeared in the reliquary at the time he’d specified to them, with curious looks on their faces was staggering to the weapon’s master. It was a very obvious sign of wavering loyalties and commonly held doubts about their matron.

“What is Gromph’s plan?” one asked.

Andrzel looked around at all the expectant faces. “He didn’t tell me much,” he confessed, “but, he did say that he wanted any valuables that could be moved discretely to be taken to the Clawrift as soon as possible.”

Another priestess scoffed, “The Clawrift? So we just hand over all of our valuables and magic items to the mercenaries?”

A third chimed in, “Are we paying Jarlaxle to save our house for us?”

The weapon’s master shook his head. “No. Gromph has secured a space there to store things he’s deemed his. He struck up a deal with Jarlaxle for it to secure his assets while things fall apart.” He didn’t think it wise to tell these women that the mercenaries weren’t even in the city anymore.

“What’s to stop us from telling Matron Mother Quenthel about this little plan?” said the first, her hands on her hips and the others looking to her.

“If you really wanted to tell Quenthel,” Andrzel smirked at her, “ _She_ would be here right now, dragging me to the dungeon, not you. You see her as a danger to the house, just like the rest of us.” He scanned the group again, “Plus, I don’t think any of you can look me in the eye and tell me none of you have designs on the Baenre throne. This is your chance to dethrone Quenthel with archmage’s backing. Don’t squander it.”

The women shared disconcerted looks among themselves. They seemed doubtful of the plan’s success and that was enough to make Andrzel nervous and wary of betrayal.

“The only way House Baenre is going to survive the humiliation of losing the Chosen,” Andrzel said, in a desperate appeal to their loyalty, “is if we stand united. Quenthel has grown paranoid and mistrustful, she’s been making terrible decisions. Her actions and their lack of subtlety were the cause of the Chosen’s flight and allowed Tiago and Jarlaxle to escape. She is not fit to lead and we all know it. We must go on without her.”

The second narrowed her eyes at him. “I thought it was _your_ failure that allowed the Chosen to escape,” she accused.

“If the Matron had confined him to the dungeon like I had originally suggested instead of giving him Tiago’s room,” Andrzel rebutted, “There would have been no chance any of the things that came to pass would have happened. You were all there for that gathering, you know what happened.”

Reluctantly, the women agreed.

Before Andrzel could relay any more instructions, a page appeared in the doorway, “Weapon’s master?”

All eyes turned to face the young boy, who flinched and lowered his own eyes to the floor.

“Matron Mother has been requesting your presence in the chapel for some time.” The page said quickly. “She wants you to report to her immediately.”

The adults all exchanged nervous looks.

“Get started,” Andrzel instructed, “I’ll be back to assist you shortly.” He started to head out after the page.

When he arrived in the chapel, Quenthel was drumming her fingers against the arm of her chair. “Where in the hells have you been?” she snarled at him.

“Attending to business, Matron,” Andrzel replied obediently. “Just as you commanded.”

She glared daggers at him. “You only recently arrived back in the complex,” she said, voice tight with anger, “and since then you’ve proven difficult to find. Where did you go and what are you up to, puny man?”

Andrzel feigned surprise at the matron’s anger. “I went to archmage’s tower to send your message to Gromph,” he explained, “It’s been chaos in the city and I wanted to personally be sure that he received the invitation to speak with you here.”

That seemed to placate the matron a little, “And what have you been up to since?”

Confusion was the emotion Andrzel picked for this one. “I’ve been securing our assets,” he said, “several priestesses have aided me in taking inventory of our arms and valuables so that we might more readily know what we are working with should things turn afoul. Also we wanted to make sure that Tiago and Jarlaxle didn’t steal anything of importance on their way out. It’s been quite a task, such objects of importance are scattered throughout the complex, not just the reliquary. I haven’t taken a break since my return.”

The matron’s fierce gaze snapped to the young page still at Andrzel’s side. “Where did you find him?”

The boy nearly buckled under the weight of her voice, his eyes still plastered to the floor. “In the reliquary, Matron. With a group of high priestesses. I didn’t hear anything they were discussing.”

She looked back to Andrzel, significantly calmer. “You should have reported back to me as soon as you returned. Told me what Gromph had to say before taking such initiative.”

“Gromph was not there when I arrived, Matron,” Andrzel replied as per Gromph’s instruction, “I left the message with one of his apprentices. There was nothing to report.”

“Where did he go?”

“The apprentice didn’t know. Only that he left a short time before my arrival.” The weapon’s master shrugged. “I suppose he may be back now, if you wish to go and speak with him. But I thought you wanted him to come here.”

Quenthel held up her hand. “No. That’s- that’s not necessary. Go back to your work, Andrzel, and take the page with you.” She waved the two of them away, looking off thoughtfully.

Once outside the massive double doors, Andrzel dismissed the page despite the boy’s arguments about the matron’s orders. That had been much too close for his comfort, and last thing he needed was to let the boy close enough for eavesdropping. Even if that meant he’d be saddled with grunt work himself.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Saribel sat patiently on the floor as her sister tended to her hair. Normally, she would have handmaids do this, or even young boys, but out of her House no such luxuries were available. It reminded Saribel of a time when they were much younger. They’d always been somewhat close in age, only a few decades apart. They used to sit for hours, reciting holy scriptures at each other and attempting the intricate braid patterns they’d seen on the Baenre women, longing for the day when they would be matrons of high ranking houses of their own.

There had even been times when the two of them set up mock houses of several sets of chess pieces and played at being warring houses fighting for a place on the council.

It seemed like lifetimes had passed since then, but even now Saribel still retained the loyalty of her sister, and it was the only loyalty she knew she could trust out here in Gauntlgrym.

“If you keep worrying yourself like this,” Berellip commented, dusting a long stand of hair from her fingers and letting it fall into her sister’s lap, “all your hair will fall out.”

Saribel scowled at the bright white strand against the black fabric of her skirt. “What, like yours?” she teased, “Oh wait.”

She turned her head, feeling the gentle tug of Berellip holding her place, to see her sister scowl at her. She looked so masculine with her hair cut so short that it could barely curl at her temples or the back of her neck. That surface elf really had done a number on her, but it seemed to be growing out just fine.

“Oh, how could I have forgotten the great Saribel’s queenly sense of humor,” Berellip deadpanned, tugging the braid in her hand and forcing the other priestess to face forward. “Shut it or I’ll make this uneven on purpose.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me.”

They shared a laugh, feeling a little more at home for a very brief moment.

Their reverie was cut short by a loud pounding on Saribel’s chamber door. The two women responded with a loud and annoyed, “ _What?_ ” simultaneously. The door swung open with a resounding _thunk_ and a guard stood, panting heavily in the doorway.

“Priestesses, we think we may have found the missing guards.” He huffed.

“You think?” Berellip asked.

“You _may have?_ ” Saribel cast a sidelong look to her sister.

The man nodded, too winded for more words. The women looked at him expectantly as he caught his breath. “You’ll have to come see for yourself,” he said, rummaging through his belt pouches for something. When he found it, he approached Saribel and handed the little trinket to her.

It was dented and scratched up terribly. Blood was still caked around the edges despite attempts to wipe it clean. Saribel held it up over her shoulder so Berellip could see it.

A symbol of House Xorlarrin.

“Where did you find this?” Saribel asked as Berellip deftly made quick work of the rest of her hair.

“Deep in a side cavern,” the guard responded. “A few of us heard screaming coming from the passage and went to investigate, that’s when we found them.”

“Are they all there?” Berellip inquired, securing the locks in her hand with a silver clip in the shape of a spider.

The man shrugged. “We didn’t get a chance to count,” he said, “We came right back here to report to you.”

The two priestesses looked at each other. “ _we?”_

Confused, the male drow turned in his spot as if he hadn’t been aware that he had arrived alone. “Z- The Baenre. He was right with me when we left the caverns. We heard footsteps behind us and started to run, I thought he was behind me the whole time. It must have caught him.”

“What is _it?_ ” Saribel was growing tired of the confusing game.

“Whatever reduced our soldiers to rancid, bloody pulp and dented metal,” The man answered, “That looks worse than it sounds.”

“Show me.” Berellip commanded, rising from her seat. Saribel rose with her.

“It obviously isn’t saf-“

“ _Show us.”_

The guard, though reluctant and in need of prodding for most of the journey, led the priestesses to the outskirts of the complex the dark elves had claimed as their own. He pointed out where he and the Baenre guard had heard screaming on their way back from their posts. He explained every sound they heard on the way through the narrow tunnels that couldn’t have accommodated more than two slender people abreast and no one overly tall. In fact, even the dark elves had to bend a bit at the waist to get through some sections of the tunnel.

He paused at one point, the smell of old blood and death starting to fill the air and told them that this was when the screaming stopped. He was prodded to continue anyway.

The three came to a large, open cavern a great distance away from the drow colony. Saribel almost reprimanded the male for going out so far, but any words she might have said caught in her throat when she saw the carnage before her.

Black and silver armor dented and in pieces, shreds of cloaks in deep blues and purples and shocks of white hair that managed to retain their light color were the only hints that this mess was the dark elves that had gone missing. Flesh and viscera congealed into crusted, bloody masses of pulp wherever the body wasn’t covered in metal. Some had limbs missing, and none of them had faces. The bodies lay in festering pile in the center of the chamber still slick in places where bodies had been recently moved, the distinct sounds of insects breaking through the ominous silence.

“You said you heard screaming coming from here?” Berellip was the first to recover, “These bodies must be tendays old.”

“It came from this direction,” the guard corrected, “It might not have come from this room.”

Saribel carefully picked her way to the center of the room to examine the pile more closely. Everything was so torn and destroyed beyond recognition. “What could have done this?” she inquired aloud, “a beast of some sort?”

“I don’t think so,” the guard answered, “this looks more thought out than what animals are capable of.”

“Perhaps Kimmuriel’s illithid brought grimlocks with them,” Berellip suggested. “They’ve done that before in Menzoberranzan.”

Saribel shook her head, “They would have taken the armor first and not gotten caught. Whatever did this either didn’t care or wanted us to find this and know what it was.”

“Dwarves,” Berellip said, “the other clans must know that we have Gauntlgrym by now. Perhaps it is warning of a coming invasion?”

Saribel returned to the other two, nodding solemnly, “I believe so.” She took a deep breath, unfazed by the stink in the air, “We have to fortify, and prepare for the worst.”

“Why not return to Menzoberranzan?” The guard asked, a bit sheepish, “Let the dwarves have their homeland back and return to our own? This place hasn’t been profit-”

The two priestess turned their heads toward him. Berellip, using the sudden glare as temporary distraction, drew a dagger from her belt and held it just out of his line of sight.

“Because we do not flee in the face of conflict,” Saribel warned, taking the man’s chin in her hand and turning his head to face her, “And we do not tolerate cowardice.”

Berellip stabbed him in the portion his neck exposed by Saribel’s turning. Blood bubbled from the wound when the priestess withdrew her weapon. The two women walked back to the complex without their escort.

-0-0-0-0-0-

The psionicist paced about his office long after he bolted the door shut. He was getting fed up with Jarlaxle’s coy shenanigans. Was it really so much to ask that he be clued in on things he’d be left responsible for planning?

He supposed he deserved some of this mistreatment, but this was kind of ridiculous. What else could he have done? Pledged loyalty to Jarlaxle and risked the wrath of a Matron at the height of her power? Leave the Bregan D’aerthe to Jarlaxle’s care while he was imprisoned and tortured for choosing the wrong side?

Had he honestly been expected to leave the guild to fester and die?

He scoffed at himself. Perhaps he had been. Jarlaxle had never been a creature of logic or order, perhaps the destruction of his guild was what he’d wanted. To cut the last tether connecting him to the city and start completely over on the surface.

Kimmuriel sighed heavily and collapsed into his chair. Resting his head against the high, wood framed back, he rubbed his temples and tried to make sense of it all. Jarlaxle still being in contact with Gromph, the exodus, what would happen to Menzoberranzan in their absence, if and when Quenthel would come after him. At least he didn’t have to worry about her calling on him for aid anymore.

A knock, solid and loud with complete disregard for any potential work Kimmuriel might have been doing started the drow upright. He glared at the door as if it had offended him and not the creature at the other side. “Go away,” he growled, “I am busy and have no time to listen to you complain.”

He rested his elbows on his desk and buried his face in his hands. There was still so much to be done and he had no information to work with. How in all the Realms were they going to hide hundreds of dark elves in a single building in a city like Luskan? How-

Another knock, closer to violent pounding than a polite alert to one’s presence disrupted his thoughts once again. Kimmuriel stared at the door again, searching for whatever thoughts might be held by the intruder. All he received was a deep grey haze with the occasional bite of anger for his efforts. “Leave,” he said sharply. This wasn’t the first time someone with psionic resistances had shown up at his door. “I know there is no space, there is nothing I can do. I-“

Without even waiting for him to finish, the person on the other side of the door stopped knocking. Stopped being polite altogether, and kicked the door in with such violent force that it swung wide, banged against the wall, and nearly swung shut again.

Standing in his doorway was a vaguely familiar face, smeared with blood, dirt, and masked in anger and anxiety. Too-large clothing hung on the slender frame of his guest, dripping dark red on the rug just inside the doorway.

Kimmuriel rocked back in his chair in surprise and stammered a bit. “What- What in the _Hells_ happened to you?”


	7. Silverymoon

Drizzt kept bustling around the room well after he knew he should have stopped. He couldn’t help it. Whether it was the lack of sleep, the incident at the gate, or the fact that he was still sharing a room, but not a bed with Artemis that had given him the weird burst of energy, he couldn’t readily tell. Regardless of the reason, the ranger couldn’t help but feel like a pot of water left on a stove to boil.

He understood, on some level, how they could think he was an imposter. His appearance had changed a great deal over the last several weeks, but that didn’t-

The ranger sighed, sitting on his bed at the far side of the room and stared out the window into the dimly firelit city. Had he really lost touch with himself so much that others could not recognize him or, rather, could not _believe_ him when he called himself Drizzt Do’Urden?

He took a long, deep breath, feeling his world slow down around him back to a normal pace. He felt tired, strangely hollow. Like something was missing from him, something vital that made him _Drizzt_ and not just some other ranger or some other dark elf. It was a terrible feeling, like a deep, gushing wound from which he could not stem the bleeding.

The elf leaned forward and buried his face in his hands for only a moment before straightening and brushing his hair out of his face. It had started getting longer and less tame. He’d have to cut it soon.

Artemis joined him in the room a short while later. His things had already been brought in, but Ambergris had taken him to a dwarven temple to see if he couldn’t land some free, or at the very least cheap, healing. Judging by his still very pronounced limp and need for assistance no such fortune shined on them.

“They couldn’t help you?” Drizzt asked as Artemis collapsed on his bed, closest to the door. Even if that particular bed hadn’t been the assassin’s, it was definitely his now.

“No,” Artemis groaned in a tone that sounded more akin to frustration than pain, “Cleric says she’s going to hit up the temples in the morn- er- when she gets back up, I guess to see if there’s anything left to be had in the city. The dwarves told us not to hold our breaths though.”

Drizzt slid across his own bed and swung his legs into the small gap between the two beds. He didn’t know what to say. Without thinking, he reached forward and ran a hand through Artemis’s hair. The assassin kept his eyes closed a moment longer and seemed to relax at the contact, but then started a pulled away as if the drow had plucked out his hair.

He said nothing though, and simply situated himself into a more comfortable position on the bed.

They sat in silence for some time, each man inside his own head with his own problems and worries trapped in bottles that threatened to crack or overflow if too much more was added. Drizzt found himself wanting for the times when he could, if he so wanted, seek Artemis’s advice. But now, after what he had done in Menzoberranzan, he felt like an intruder. As though he did not belong in Artemis’s life anymore. A feeling that had only gained strength as Artemis gained distance.

“I think,” Drizzt said, hesitating when he realized he had Artemis’s attention, “we should talk.”

Artemis nodded. “We should, but not tonight. I’m exhausted from being dragged around and you haven’t been sleeping. We both need rest now. Important conversations can happen in the morning. Er- whatever, you know what I mean.”

Drizzt laughed a little and nodded, “I suppose you’re right. Once we’re settled then.”

The two men took to their separate beds for some much needed rest.

Sleep, much to Drizzt’s surprise came easily. His dreams were dark, empty spaces and not forest fires or demons coming to kill him.

He woke with a start to the feeling of a hand on his face, but when he sat up in his bed, no one was there.

-0-0-0-0-0-

She visited Artemis as soon as she was dressed and ready for the day what must have been a few days into their stay in Silverymoon. His leg was healing, slowly but surely and the signs of infection were nearly gone. Though his progress seemed great since he’d woken up, Ambergris was still worried about the way the deep, jagged cut was healing. The longer he went without quick and proper magical healing, the more likely it became that he would be stuck with a limp for a long time.

Something the dwarf was sure Artemis Entreri would not tolerate.

The cleric started in the dwarven temples, asking for advice and directions. She was led to one of the human establishments. They led her to another. And another.

She wandered all over town, on the advice of other clerics but found absolutely nothing.

Eventually, she wound up at a temple of Lathander.

“I’m lookin’ fer someone to sell me healin’ items,” she announced as she entered the room. “This is my last stop so I want results.”

“Will you settle for answers?” One of the clerics offered. The place was staggeringly empty. Only a few clerics in their usual, disgustingly colored to the dwarf, robes milled around uselessly. Others were most likely out and about helping in any ways they could without magic.

“Is that all I’m gonna be gettin’ here?” she sighed, exasperated. She gone through so many temples, some of which made her sick to be near, she’d tried to reach old contacts or go through merchants. She was tired.

The cleric rose from her seat and walked over to Ambergris, motioning for her to sit on a nearby bench.

“The city is horribly low on healing supplies,” the Lathader priestess admitted, “When the Sundering started a lot of the rich and powerful started snatching up magic items left and right. When it became obvious that the clerics could no longer heal those potions and scrolls were the first to go.”

“Ye tellin’ me I need to rob a fat nobleman to get me friend healed?” Ambergris growled, more in general frustration that at the priestess trying to help her.

“Not _directly_ no,” the human laughed, “Though, I can’t be sure which ones still have items and which ones have traded them for other goods since the city closed its gates. The darkness has only just started, but it feels like it has dragged on forever and people are doing despicable things out panic.”

“Fear does strange things to people,” Ambergris agreed. “Is there anywhere ye know of that I can get the supplies I need?”

The woman shook her head, “I can’t say for certain. We’ve been trying to get potions from the mages’ guild but they have a lot to deal with as it is, being the only ones with magic. People have been flocking to them the way they used to flock to us and the poor mages don’t know what to do. We’ve been waiting for what feels like tendays for them to get potions to us that we can put in our reserves for emergencies.”

Ambergris ran a hand through her hair and cursed in more than one language. “We shouldn’ta waited,” she mumbled under her breath.

The priestess placed a hand on her shoulder in an attempt at comfort. “Times are hard. Our gods are distant. But we cannot doubt our choices.” When Ambergris glared up at her the priestess tried to smile disarmingly, “We do what we can with what we have, dwarf.”

“We dun have much now, do we?” Ambergris teased, not expecting a reply.

“We have our judgment. Our better natures. Things our gods instilled in us before we found our callings. They chose us for a reason,” The priestess’s smile was genuine, “we should trust in their decision.”

“My faith is my fortress, my god but a light in the windows,” Ambergris laughed at the old adage. She never thought that it would ever be so relevant to her life.

The other priestess laughed with her. “Indeed. Now, is there anything else I might be able to assist you with?”

Ambergris sighed, “I need crutches.”

“I can get you those.”

She returned to the inn shortly after. She felt empty handed despite having brought back something she’d promised to. The dwarf had expected Artemis to be angry with her, but he wasn’t. He just seemed tired, as if something important and draining had happened in her absence and he was too worn-out for worry.

It turned out the dwarf was too.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Afafrenfere and Athrogate headed down to a nearby tavern shortly after Ambergris left the inn. The lack of daylight and proper timekeeping allowed for drinks to be sold at all hours and the usual drunkards flocked to bars at all times, no longer self-conscious at the idea of getting horribly drunk before sunrise.

The monk shouldered his way to the bar and ordered for himself and the dwarf. A flagon was handed to him immediately and he passed it down to Athrogate. His own drink followed shortly after.

It didn’t take long for Athrogate to get himself caught up in conversation with a few other dwarves that had taken up a couple of corner tables. Afafrenfere took the opportunity to freely roam the room. Not that he didn’t like Athrogate, or the company of dwarves for that matter. He just had different interests today.

Namely, a particularly handsome gentlemen that had just walked in and sat at the bar.

Afafrenfere kept his eye on the filled stools near the man, waiting for one to be vacated. As soon the opportunity presented itself, Afafrenfere took it leaving the dwarf to his new comrades.

He sat, asking for a refill for his drink and looking up and down the bar, pretending to scope it out a second time. Eventually his eyes game to the handsome stranger. He shot the man a smile and received one in return.

It felt like it had been a lifetime since Afafrenfere could prowl around bars and flirt. An age since he could see an attractive man in a bar and be able to look at him instead of over his shoulder. It was freeing to just make eye-contact with this guy, even if nothing came of it.

He laughed quietly and turned his gaze back down to his drink. He was rusty, he knew. After so long it was going to take him a long time to get back into the swing of things. But, there no reason he couldn’t start now.

When he looked up the man was gone.

Well, except that.

Afafrenfere sighed and returned to his drink which was really just water in a fancy glass. Just his luck he supposed.

“Did you hear” Afafrenfere heard over his shoulder, “about the rangers?”

“No,” another voice replied, “what happened?”

The monk cast a quick glance at his side. The man that first spoke wasn’t too far up the bar from Afafrenfere’s current position. He was leaning across the tacky wood and talking to the bartender in a low voice.

“Started rainin’ in the woods when they were out huntin’” the patron said, “but it weren’t rainin’ water.”

“Oh?” The bartender laughed as if this was the type of guy to come up with strange stories more amusing than factual.

“It was glass,” the guy said, “glass shards, big as yer finger fallin from the sky. They were terrified, buncha animals got killed, tore their camp up good.”

“This anythin’ like the black fog you saw in the north side o’ the city a couple days ago.”

“That was real, damn it.” The man snapped, “And so is this. Weird things are happenin’ in the dark, man. Soon things’ll be crawlin’ out of it to snatch us up.”

That was when Afafrenfere stopped listening. Crackpot stories had never been his cup of tea. He turned back to his original table and noticed that Athrogate had already left. The monk arched an eyebrow curiously. It wasn’t like him to leave a tavern early.

He wandered around, half-heartedly looking for the dwarf, and mostly taking in the city. Eventually, Afafrenfere found him camped out in Drizzt and Artemis’s room. “I turn my back for five minutes and ye vanish on me,” the dwarf accused as soon as the monk appeared in the doorway.

“I could say the same thing to you!” Afafrenfere shot back.

Shortly after, Ambergris arrived with a pair of crutches and an exhausted look on her face. Afafrenfere instinctively offered to get her a plate of food and a drink. She countered his offer with just getting everyone a meal.

“Wait-“ Ambergris said, stopping the two men in the doorway, “You two go get Effron. I’ll go get the food and we’ll eat together like normal people.”

The two nodded and headed off.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Effron purchased a table in the back of the library near the dustier, disused tomes no one bothered to reorganize or even keep tabs on. It didn’t cost much to not be bothered in a place like this, if you knew the right person to pay.

The first thing the warlock acquired was a map. The ones they had readily available were much too large for his purposes, so after much wasted effort and time, Effron drew his own. The first thing he did with that quick reference map was dot the place in Neverwinter Wood he would have to go if his search turned up fruitless.

Then, his journey through tomes began.

He had to pull books from all over the building to compile his research, even going into locked sections with a steeply priced librarian’s key. He looked into several subjects, not just his own personal endeavors but things that might help the group in future conflicts or potential things that could happen in the absence of the gods.

But there was always that looming fear that caused him to pile books and books at potential, and ultimately unavailable candidates and locations. Either viable things were in places he couldn’t get to, or  places he could reach had nothing viable.

The longer he studied and searched, the more it seemed like he had only one option.

He buried his face in his hand and silently cursed in frustration. There had to be another option.

_Anyone but her._

-0-0-0-0-0-

Ambergris woke him early in the morning. It looked like Drizzt had already been up for a while and had it not been for his sleep-tousled appearance Artemis might have suspected he hadn’t slept at all yet again. The cleric asked Drizzt to leave for a bit while she tended to Artemis’s injury. Drizzt, of course was hesitant.

She didn’t put up much of a fight and ultimately let him stay.

Quickly, and without much grace, she checked the wound. The stitching that held it closed seemed to be holding up alright and the deep blue and purple bruises that outlined the terribly deep gash were beginning to fade to shades of yellow and grey. She poked and prodded it a few times, pressing a dry cloth to it and checking it at various points. When she set it aside it was speckled with dots of pink but not much more.

“Straighten it.”

Artemis tried, but the muscles in his thigh grew tight and he felt as though the stitches would tear free despite all of Ambergris’s assurances to the contrary. When he was finally allowed to relax she clicked her tongue at him.

“I dun like the way it’s healin’” She sighed, “I dun think I’ll have to take the leg after all, but somethin’ll need to be done if yer wantin’ to walk on it again like ye used to.” She folded her arms and looked at the two men, “I’ll take a look around the city. I may still have some contacts here from my Adbar days, but it ain’t likely. I’ll get ye some crutches, even if I don’t find anything to heal ye” She added, patting Entreri’s shin, “At least then ye’ll get to be mobile on yer own power.”

“That’s better than nothing,” Artemis replied, “Thanks.”

“Bah.”

She left just as quickly as she’d come in, stopping to peek her head back in the door and whisper, “Go easy on ‘im,” to Drizzt with a not-so-subtle wink before disappearing for good.

So Drizzt still hadn’t told anyone about the rift between them either.

Drizzt leaned against the door long after the cleric had left, watching Artemis expectantly as the assassin rubbed the soreness from his leg. When Artemis finally turned his attention to him, he asked, “Can we talk now?”

Artemis tried to get a good read on Drizzt’s face. He seemed nervous, but there was something else there, frustration? Sadness? Artemis couldn’t tell under Drizzt’s mask of wary emotional neutrality. He looked rested and wound tight, but exhausted and weighed down all at the same time. The assassin wasn’t really surprised to see Drizzt in such a state, so much had happened in so short a time.

“Sure.”

Drizzt took the few steps to the foot of Artemis’s bed slowly and sat down, crossing his legs and taking up as little space as possible.

They watched each other in silence for a painfully long amount of time. Each knowing the things he wanted to say, but not the order in which to say those things.

“I’m sorry,” Drizzt said, the words appearing to tumble out without his consent, “For the things I did in Menzoberranzan. I was not in control, and anything I did, I would hope, I did not do with the intent to hurt you.” He sighed, momentum slowing, “As for the things I said. I can’t remember. I’ve tried so hard, but everything is hazy or missing. I shouldn’t have done those things, and really I am not surprised that you are as angry as you are.”

“The fire of my anger has died a bit in the face of the bigger picture,” Artemis confessed, “Do not take that to mean that what you’ve done has become easy to forgive.” He tried his best to sound comforting, “But I will not leave you entirely without hope.” Drizzt seemed to nearly collapse in on himself with relief. “I must ask though,” Artemis said, snatching that relief away and feeling a slight twinge for it, “Can I trust you?”

The look on Drizzt face told Artemis the drow knew he was testing him.

Drizzt was silent for a long time. “I want to say yes,” he said finally, “I want to say it wholeheartedly and throw myself at your feet and have everything begin to go back to the way it was.” His voice caught in his throat, “But I can’t.”

Though his face was mostly passive, there was a lot of sorrow in Drizzt’s voice, “I- I don’t feel like myself anymore. I feel like I am the imposter everyone claims me to be. I can tell you without a shadow of a doubt that you can trust Drizzt Do’Urden, but I cannot tell you for certain that I am him right now.”

“You are still Drizzt Do’Urden,” Artemis said, brow furrowing in concern.

“It does not feel that way,” Drizzt confessed.

“Is this about what the guards said at the gate?”

“Among other things,” the ranger sighed.

Entreri lowered his gaze for a moment. “I know what that’s like. There was a long time I wasn’t Artemis Entreri. It’ll come back to you.”

A sad smile spread across Drizzt’s face. He hadn’t expected to be comforted.

“Things are hard for all of us. We all need time to adjust.” Artemis continued to talk despite the more rational parts of him saying he shouldn’t. Something about sorrow slowly turning to warmth on Drizzt’s face seemed to drown out that part of his mind.

“Thank you,” Drizzt said, “You not need to say that.” There was a short pause, as Drizzt collected himself more entirely. “What can I do?” he asked, “To attempt to make things up to you.”

Artemis only shrugged. How does one repent for crimes like Drizzt’s? Particularly ones that the perpetrator did not remember. “I have no idea,” he said. “This isn’t the type of thing that can be made up with an apology and a useful gift. This is going to take time.”

Drizzt, unsatisfied but looking to be without alternatives, only nodded, “I suppose that’s fair. I mean, didn’t it take decades and you killing me for us to just get over a rivalry?”

They laughed together.

“I’m going to do what I can,” Drizzt said, with newfound optimism. “Starting with breakfast.”

Artemis arched an eyebrow.

Drizzt made good on his promise of breakfast, bringing up two plates so Artemis wouldn’t have to deal with the stairs, which were slowly and steadily becoming an enemy to the assassin. The two sat a safe distance from each other, using the space between their beds to enforce said distance.  They attempted to keep their conversations light and goal-oriented. Where were they going to go next? Were they going to stay in Silverymoon? They avoided topics like Drizzt’s mental state or Artemis’s leg, at least for the time being.

Only so much damage could be repaired in one sitting.

Well after their meal, Athrogate had come in to join them, grumbling about having lost Afafrenfere at a tavern and some rather colorful things about “sneaky thief types.”

Said “sneaky thief type” joined them a while later, relaying the information he’d gathered around town throughout the day.

Ambergris was the last to join them. The look on her face wasn’t as happy as those who had arrived before her. She held up a pair of sturdy crutches taller than she was as she entered though, and Artemis couldn’t resist the urge to thank her.

Despite not having access not having access to magic that would make his injury a non-issue, he was self-reliant again, and that was enough for now.

-0-0-0-0-0-

The dwarf grumbled at himself as he and the monk made their way to the library Effron had set up shop in. No one had seen him for days, or so they’d figured based on the count Effron had taught them all on the road. Afafrenfere and, to a lesser degree, Ambergris were beginning to worry about him. It was decreed that the warlock would be fetched and forced to at least sit at the table at suppertime if not eat.

How Athrogate wound up saddled with the job alongside Afafrenfere continued to puzzle the dwarf.

“I dun see how _ye_ couldn’ta just come an’ got him,” Athrogate grunted out of the corner of his mouth, glaring back at every mage that gave him a dirty look as they entered the library.

“Ambergris worries I might run away with him,” Afafrenfere joked back.

The dwarf glowered up at him, “What’s the real reason?”

Afafrenfere’s face softened. “She’s worried about _you_ , I suppose.” He said with a shrug, “At least, that’s what our conversations have led me to believe.”

“She talks about me?” Athrogate muttered, suddenly curious. “What does she say?”

The human snorted. “Well,” he said with a dramatic roll of his eyes, “normally she just gushes about the majesty of your beard and the strength of your,” he paused and looked side to side to see if anyone was close enough to overhear, “arm.” Athrogate’s curious stare turned skeptical, “Recently she’s just been worried about everyone. Between the Sundering and Drizzt and Artemis’s injury she’s having a hard time keeping track of everyone and keeping the peace. She said you’ve been quieter lately than normal, and worries you might be getting into your own head a little too much and wanted me to distract you.”

“Is that why we took the long way here?” Athrogate ribbed with a half-hearted chuckle.

“How was I supposed to know that would spook the horse?” Afafrenfere attempted to defend himself, but both just started laughing only to be shushed by a nearby mage.

“Bah, shush yourself.”

Afafrenfere stepped between them, “Excuse me. Since we’ve interrupted you already. Have you seen a warlock around here? Tall guy, skinny. Horns.” He made curling motions around the sides of his head with his fingers to imitate the shape of Effron’s horns.

The mage pointed them to a far section of the library and demanded they leave quickly and avoid further disturbances of the peace.

The two made their way across the enormous stone room, lined and broken up by bookshelves laden with tomes so heavy the wood of the shelves was warped. Some books were locked in cages and guarded by surly-looking librarians, others were chained to the shelves, and many were free to be taken to desks and read in the comfort of a chair.

Effron wasn’t at his desk when they arrived, but judging by the neat arrangement of things and the elegant hand in the still-open notebook, it was in fact Effron’s. “Damn it,” Afafrenfere sighed, looking around the nearest shelves to see if the warlock was nearby. “I’m gonna go look for him. You stay here in case he comes back. I think your stomping around might be starting to piss people off.”

The dwarf snorted and waved him off, but remained at the desk, waiting with relative patience. It was such a quiet space save for the turning of pages and the occasional cough. It was almost uncomfortable. Everything was so muted and immobile. If time was dragging on outside, it must have been at a standstill in here. How did those finger-wagglers stand it?

Instantly bored, Athrogate turned his attention to Effron’s work. If he was going to leave it unguarded, he had no room to get angry if someone peeked through it, right? Across the desk, under everything was a map of the Sword Coast and neighboring lands all the way to Thay. Effron had copied a portion of the map down in his notebook. Its southmost point was Baldur’s Gate, eastmost was a little past Silverymoon. There were several black dots and lines marking townships and roads. Then, there were a few little red marks left conspicuously unlabeled; most were small ‘x’s, but there was one solid circle in Neverwinter Wood, near the city of the same name.

Curious, the dwarf, pulled one of the books down from Effron’s neat stacks and flipped it open a bit too carelessly. Not that it mattered, since the librarians were absent in this portion.

“Principles of the Arcane, Volume Five,” the book’s first page read, “Warlock Pacts and Casting.”

Athrogate closed the book and pulled up another one. “Outsiders of the Sword Coast.”

A third, “An Abridged Guide to the Planes of Evil”

Hearing footsteps approaching, Athrogate hastily replaced the books, in the wrong order and much more precariously than Effron had placed them and stepped away from the desk, pretending to admire the polished stone floors. “’Bout time,” he grumbled when the monk and warlock rounded one of the shelves. Afafrenfere shushed him.

“I’d love to,” Effron was saying as he went to his desk and set another book on it, “But I’m very busy.”

“What exactly are ye studyin’ that so damn important ye can’t come back just for _dinner_?” Athrogate asked.

“Too many things,” the warlock sighed, “and I still can’t find the information I need.”

“All the more reason for you to take a break then,” Afafrenfere suggested. “We’re all starting to worry a little,” he continued when the warlock tried to argue, “let’s have a day of normalcy and just have dinner together, yeah? You can get back to work right after.”

Effron, temporarily distracted by something Athrogate was sure was the disorder of his books, sighed through his nose. “Yeah. Okay. I think I could use a good meal and a night’s sleep.” He picked up his notebook and some of his other things. “Let’s go.”

They headed out, Effron briefly stopping to tell one of the librarians not to clear his workspace and that he’d be back in a few hours. He had to pay for such a service, but the warlock didn’t seem to mind. Everyone in the building was happy to see them all go.

On their way back to the inn, they passed a large crowd of people gathered near one of the city’s gates. A large portcullis that was normally left open and heavily guarded. The trio exchanged looks among themselves and went to investigate.

Murmured rumors caught their ears as they approached. Athrogate, not one to tolerate rumor alone as a source of information, proceeded to barrel through the crowd to see for himself. Whispers of zombies and a dead family of farmers that lived in this area surrounded them along with shouts of “hey” and “watch where you’re going, oaf!” as they progressed through the throng.

When the trio arrived at the gate and looked out into the darkness they didn’t see much. The road was lined with torches and lamps going out for miles and it cast and eerie orange glow on the area. In the distance the vague outline of trees was barely visible against the dark blue velvet of the sky. The three leaned in close, their faces nearly pressed to the iron bars as they looked for what the crowd had gathered for.

Afafrenfere spotted it first, pointing forward and slightly to the left of the gate. A shambling creature, wandering about aimlessly around the road. All eyes, not just the trio’s turned to the creature as it wandered closer and two more, slightly smaller, creatures appeared behind it. The whispers erupted anew as they drew close enough to be visible. Guards shouted orders to ready bows prepare to defend the wall, even though the threat seemed very minor.

“Those poor people,” a woman beside them sighed, “to be turned into such horrible monsters.”

The creatures finally stepped into the light. Athrogate sneered at the gross, rotting things. He heard Effron make a thoughtful, slight distressed noise behind him. “What is it?”

“Those aren’t zombies,” Effron said. “They’re ghouls.”

Afafrenfere turned to him, “Is there a difference?”

Athrogate couldn’t see him, but he could hear the derisive scowl in Effron’s voice. “Several. But the most import one is that they can infect people with their curse if they get too clo-“

“Oi!” Athrogate shouted up at the guards, “Shoot ‘em now. Don’t let ‘em get to the gates!”

“They’re ghouls, they’ll infect others.” Effron called up as well, when all eyes turned to them.

The guards that weren’t standing armed and ready turned to look at them. “How do ya know?” one called back, suspicious.

“He was enslaved by a necromancer ’fore we got ‘im,” Athrogate shouted before the others could answer, pointing his thumb backward at Effron, “He knows what they look like.”

Confusion briefly flashed across Effron’s face, but he wound up nodding. “They’re diseased. All it takes is a scratch.”

“Don’t risk these people’s lives,” Afafrenfere chimed in.

The crowd’s nervous whispers suddenly became horrified calls for action. The guards, in a moment of worry, fired without orders.

It took several arrows, but eventually the ghouls went down a good distance from the gates. Seeing the threat quelled, the crowd dispersed to other more interesting things. The three lingered, at Athrogate’s request, for Effron to instruct the guards on how to deal with ghoul corpses.

They arrived at the inn much later than Athrogate and Afafrenfere had promised Ambergris they would be back, but any scolding she may have had in store for them, died in her throat when they told them about their encounter.

That night, after everyone had turned in for rest, Athrogate pulled Ambergris aside on their way to the bar. “I need to tell ye something.”

“Is it more about undead?” Ambergis sighed, “’Cause I dunno if I can take any more bad news-“

“I’m not sure Effron’s totally on our side in this,” Athrogate confessed abruptly. “He wasn’t studyin’ the Sunderin’ or the Time o’ Troubles in that library. He’s lookin’ for somethin’. Somethin’ evil.”

Ambergris blinked at him in alarm, halting her progress, “Effron? _Our Effron?_ Ye sure?”

“It was his desk, all his stuff was there. An’ he had all these books about Outsiders and the Planes o’ Evil.” Athrogate explained, “I get that he’s a finger-waggler, an’ that kinda thing comes with the territory, but I don’t think his kind go around drawin’ _maps._ ”

Ambergris frowned, brow furrowing. “There’s got to be more to this…” she said trailing off as her thoughts wandered, “I don’t get an uneasy feelin’ from Effron the way I did Parbid or other people that were real nasty. Somethin’ else has to be happenin’ here.”

“I just wanted to let you know,” Athrogate said, holding up his hands, “Maybe ye can convince Afafrenfere to try and get some info out of ‘im. Aff listens to ye, and Eff listens to Aff.”

Ambergris nodded, face still thoughtful. “Tomorrow,” she vowed, “but tonight, we drink the stress away while we still can.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Athrogate said, putting on a big smile and bellowing a laugh.


	8. Without Better Ideas

The tall man in well-made plate mail that gleamed orange in the light of torches and lanterns spoke from astride a massive grey horse. He commanded his men to head toward the city gate, steadily making his way through the streets with townspeople gathered around the legs of the guards’ horses.

The man, though official in appearance, wasn’t really a member of the guard. No, he was, instead, a paladin of no small merit, sent well after the guards to quell the dark elf threat. Which, it turned out when he arrived, was not a threat at all. He chose to stay to aid the people as best he could despite not being what the people really needed, especially when whispers of undead in the wood started drifting in on the lips of hunters and farmers. Not that he could do much about it without his usual holy backing.

He sided with the people more often than the guard, holding no loyalty to the lords of the land. Often he petitioned for medicine of food to be spread more evenly. When that didn’t work he went around with makeshift home remedies and clean water, doing good deeds.

Dahlia hated the guy.

Tiago laughed, leaning in the doorway to watch the throng pass by the guildhouse. He could see why she hated him. Guys like this, the _goodly_ types, were bad for the business she was starting. What good was charging for good deeds when someone like this went around doing them for free?

He was an impressive sort; Tiago had to give him that. The people were pleading with him, trying to convince him to stay and help them. But he always responded that the people needed supplies and someone had to go and find out why relief wasn’t coming, vowing to get to the bottom of things and return just like a true hero.

Okay, now Tiago was starting to get a little nauseated.

But still, he watched them progress. Less for the paladin and more for the warhorse. It was glorious mountain of a creature, all strength and speed. Its eyes scanned the crowd with an intelligence unnatural for an animal. It picked its way through the throng carefully gently choosing its path instead of just barreling through civilians.

Tiago found himself reminded of Byok watching the creature move. He still missed the lizard, even after so much time. The creature had been more than a mount stashed in a stable to him and it left an ache in his chest to think about. He remembered those years spent using Byok as his only means of transportation, of learning to fight on a steed more efficiently than he could on his feet. He smiled a little at the memories of long nights spent in the lizards’ housing at House Baenre, determined to not let Quenthel find him before he recovered and Byok’s constant nibbling on his shirt.

“He’s leaving?” Dahlia’s voice broke Tiago free from his memories. She was leaning against the other side of the doorway, eyebrow arched, watching the procession leave.

“Something about finding supplies for the people,” Tiago replied, “I wasn’t really paying attention .”

“Then what are you doing out here?” Dahlia turned to face him, scowling slightly. She never really did approve of downtime.

It wasn’t surprising she’d gotten on so well in Thay.

“Reminiscing.” The drow answered with a self-deprecating laugh. He leaned out the door to get one last look and the horse and its rider, “You think if I sneak out into the forest I can kill the guy and take his horse?”

Dahlia scoffed at him. “A paladin’s warhorse? I doubt it would go with you willingly. You’d probably wind up having to kill it too.” She gave him a shrug when he faced her and started to head back inside. “And even if you did. A horse that big won’t last in a city like this for long. When people are starving, horses are one of the first to go.”

Tiago scowled at her back for a moment, but eventually followed her back inside.

-0-0-0-0-0-

The undead started appearing outside the gates more frequently. Zombies, ghouls, skeletons shambled up to the limits of the city of Silverymoon and were constantly shot down by guards. They weren’t much of a threat just yet, but that didn’t stop the citizenry at large from growing fearful. Whispers began in all circles about the source of the horde. The clerics feared that the farmlands were breeding such creatures and soon that land would be tainted. The wizards covered their mouths and speculated about Szass Tam and the red wizards appearing on their doorstep any day. Noblemen feared for the food supply for all the wrong reasons. Peasants begged for promises of safety for their families.

Everyone was left on edge.

Drizzt and the dwarves stayed in as much contact with the guards as they were able. Which wound up amounting to using Athrogate as a liaison to the watch and Ambergris as one to the captains and Drizzt was left to receive reports and endure nervous looks whenever he showed up for a meeting. Though racism wasn’t unfamiliar territory for the drow, it still stung that a city he had loved now looked at him with immense suspicion.

The others tried to reassure him, but it all felt hollow enough that the ranger would abruptly change the subject.

Eventually, the subject of what they would do next came up. Artemis was the first to breach the topic, by asking if there was another place they could possibly find healing supplies as everyone picked at their breakfast. At least, they believed it was breakfast. The absence of time markers never ceased to make mealtimes confusing.

Ambergris was the first to respond negatively. She wished that there was more they could do, but if Silverymoon was tapped out, it was highly likely that other places would be hurting for supplies as well. Especially given the amount of time it would take them to get anywhere else.

Afafrenfere suggested appealing to someone in Luskan. Sure, they were pirates, but that meant they had supplies and could be bartered with, if at an extreme cost. Artemis countered with their limited money. The monk shot back a quip about the drow armor Drizzt still had and didn’t want to wear anyway as well as a few trinkets of his own that could be give up for trade like his thieves’ picks.

Artemis told him to keep the picks because he’d rather sport a peg leg than broker with pirates. Enough experience with them in Calimport, had been his reasoning.

Athrogate suggested a dwarven hold. They might not have much in supplies, but it would be a place to be safe and lay low without having to fret too much about a food supply. At least a third of the goods in most strongholds came from the Underdark and they’d be prepared for a situation like this. The others all seemed to agree with the sentiment, except two.

Artemis and Effron. Both cited a lack of friendliness with the dwarves as a primary reason. Artemis continued with an extreme distaste for tunnels after his most recent jaunt in the Underdark as well as the fact that House Baenre was most likely still actively hunting Drizzt and leaving the surface might cause word to get back to them.

Effron, however, presented a much more interesting case. “We still haven’t found out what happened to the people of Neverwinter,” he said. “We left as soon as the primordial was resealed. There’s a chance they might not have abandoned their city. With so few people that have so little money, there’s a chance that healing supplies might still be available for purchase.”

The rest of the group looked amongst themselves and then all gazes turned to Effron curious and skeptical in equal measure.

“What?” Effron said, a little defensive, “It was just a suggestion.”

Drizzt stepped to his defense. “It’s not the worst idea we’ve come up with so far,” the drow said, “and it would be nice to know they’re alright.” He turned to Artemis, “If you think you can make such a journey.”

Artemis cast a glance to Ambergris before scoffing. “I think I can tolerate such a journey. But it’ll be slow going even with the horses.”

“It’s not healed?” Afafrenfere asked.

“We’re tryin’ to keep it from scarrin’ wrong,” Ambergris explained, Effron nodding along with her. “If it does, it’ll never heal right. And whatever it is that cut ‘im ain’t making that sort o’ thing easy. It just dun want to close all the way.”

“I’m not sure what kind of enchantment Andrzel had on his sword, but it cuts like nothing I’ve endured.” Artemis said, leaning to the side to rub his injured leg, “It’s been how long? Weeks? And I still make up bloody in the mornings.”

Grim looks circled the table.

“At least I dun have to amputate it anymore,” Ambergris said around a bite of stale bread.

“You never had to in the first place,” Artemis quipped back, only to get a snort of derision in return.

“What say ye, Drizzt?” Athrogate asked, nudging the drow with his elbow. “Yer the only one that hasn’t expressed an opinion.”

Artemis was quick to point out that he hadn’t been allowed to offer up a suggestion either and the dwarf just waved him off using the logic of “If ye had to ask for others to figure it out, ye obviously didn’t have any ideas of yer own.” Artemis flung a forkful of egg at the dwarf. It missed by a wide margin, most likely on purpose, but was enough to earn him a grumpy look.

Drizzt thought about the question for some time. Long enough, in fact, to earn curious looks and gentle prompts from the others. “I’m not fond of the idea of leaving. We’re pretty safe here for now, and with the undead in the woods leaving seems a bit foolish.” He poked at his food, pushing it all to one side of his plate, “But, if we must go. I like Effron’s idea. Neverwinter’s a sturdy city, even without all the people, and the small population gives us better odds. That and the people will vouch for us if we try to barter with whoever’s in charge.”

“And if the city’s been abandoned?” Artemis asked, “Or the drow have taken over?” He looked from Drizzt to Effron and back again, “What then?”

Neither man had an answer.

Eventually, Afafrenfere suggested they table the discussion for now, siding with Drizzt that Silverymoon was safe and their best option for now, might as well stick with it.

No one seemed happy with that answer, but none could argue with it either.

Not yet anyway.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Dahlia leaned her chair back, one foot against the edge of the table rocking her back and forth. To the untrained eye, it would appear that she was just staring off into space. In reality, she was eavesdropping, listening to the sounds of quiet footsteps against the floor upstairs, distant conversations where only one or two words was discernable, the noise of the rabble outside.

Her gamble with this city was paying off. Word of the dead wandering the woods had come back only a few hours after the paladin and his entourage left. People were already growing worried and looking for someone to protect and provide for them. Few had come knocking on her door and she’d answered each and every one of them with a sly smile and a low price only to receive nervous glances and promises that they would come back later in return.

Dahlia didn’t mind. She knew they’d come back when the guards failed them. If there was one thing she’d learned rising through the ranks in Thay, it was that guards never truly looked out for the people and they would search for some hero of their own eventually.

And then they would submit when their heroes betrayed them.

“Guildmistress?”

Dahlia let her chair fall to the floor with a resounding _clunk_ and turned to face the young girl that had interrupted her thoughts. “Yes?”

Glenda shifted her weight, looking more thoughtful than nervous. Dahlia always liked that about her; she wasn’t shy or submissive the way many girls her age tended to be. The way Dahlia herself had been when she’d risked her mother’s wrath. But not this one. So wonderfully defiant and surefooted. “Do you have the time for a question?”

“What manner of question?”

Glenda pulled out a chair and used it to prop up her feet as she sat on the table. “You already know that I didn’t manage to get into the storehouse,” she said, a look of guilt flashed across her face even though she was still in the process of being punished for her clumsiness, not being allowed to leave the guildhouse. “But I did find something.”

“That key,” Dahlia said with a nod, “What about it?”

“That isn’t all that happened,” Glenda confessed, her look of guilt diminishing as she went on, “While I was fleeing the guards, this boy helped me. He said he knew a way into the town hall’s storerooms and was willing to help me.”

The elf scowled at her thoughtfully.  So _that_ was what she had been trying to say when Dahlia had laid into her about getting caught and screwing up a vital part of the mission. “What’s his price?”

“Membership to the guild,” Glenda said, “I think he’s homeless and looking for a place to sleep and work. The way he knows the city could be helpful, and given the way he dealt with the guards, I don’t think he’s a spy.”

Dahlia rested her elbows on the table and gave the proposition some thought. While Glenda’s beliefs about this boy certainly weren’t that much of a stretch it was difficult to make a decision with so little information. “How old is this boy?”

“A little younger than I am.”

“He could be useful,” another voice said. Both turned to see Talim leaning against one of the three support posts separating the two halves of the building’s main room.

“How long have you been standing there?” Dahlia asked, a bit annoyed that she hadn’t noticed the woman sooner.

“Long enough to know Tiago soon won’t be the only rooster in this henhouse,” She laughed, crossing to the table and pouring herself a cup of water from the pitcher next to Glenda.

Dahlia made a face at her. “What do you think we should do?”

Talim arched an eyebrow. “Why are you asking for my advice? Isn’t Tiago your second in command? Shouldn’t you be asking him?”

“He’s not here and you are. Opinions, give them.”

The rogue thought the whole thing over. “Children are always useful,” she said after a time, “especially street-urchins. He’s young, so his loyalty will be easy to buy. I say go for it. He sounds useful and if something goes wrong he won’t be killed on sight. You put an adult man in that storeroom those guards will shoot him dead, but a child might get away with just losing one hand.”

Dahlia mulled it over a bit more. “We have the funds to take on another.”

“Sasani says we have some extra money,” Glenda said, “Or, she did when Tiago asked her.”

The guildmaster tilted her head at this. “What in the hells does _he_ need money for?”

The other two looked to each other and then back at Dahlia with shrugs. “He’s a dark elf,” Talim said, “is this really surprising behavior?”

With a sigh, Dahlia closed her eye and rubbed the beginnings of a headache from her forehead her eyepatch rubbing against her skin, “No. I suppose not.” After a moment, she recovered her train of thought. “Tell this boy of yours that we’ll take him on for a trial period,” she said holding Glenda’s gaze the entire time, “That if he can prove himself useful we’ll take him onboard. You remember what I wanted from that storeroom?”

Glenda nodded. “A list of all items contained within and any potion bottles with red liquid inside.”

“Good,” Dahlia sat back in her chair. “Next time you meet with him, see what you can arrange. When you do go, tread lightly. And, if something goes wrong, blame him. Tell the guards whatever you need to, play up the innocent, scared little girl act as best you can and pray they don’t recognize you.” When Glenda nodded to confirm her understanding, she added, “Don’t get too friendly with him. Push comes to shove you need to make sure he ends up a casualty of the Sundering before you do, understood?”

“I understand, mistress.”

“Anything else?”

Glenda shook her head no, and Dahlia dismissed her. Talim took up a place in the chair Glenda had used for her feet. “You think she’ll get in this time?”

“She better. We need that inventory and those potions.” Dahlia replied. “Maybe you should give her a crash-course in trap finding, just to be safe.”

Talim shook her head, “Tried that once. She never took to it. Glen can sneak around with the best of ‘em but she was never very good at things that required delicate handwork. Ren even had a hard time teaching her to sew.”

Dahlia chewed the inside of her lip. Surely the guards would put traps on a door that important. Or hire someone to do so. She hoped this boy of Glenda’s knew his way around such a thing, lest they both end up in more trouble than the Raven and her guild could talk their way out of and still keep the children in their immediate employ.

“If they get arrested, do you think you could break them out?” Dahlia asked. Several other people had been arrested in recent days and none of them received release no matter how much the families begged.

“I will certainly try,” Talim replied, not sounding too sure herself, “if that is your order.”

“It is.”

-0-0-0-0-0-

Ambergris’s voice called out to him as Afafrenfere passed by the dwarves’ shared room. The monk stopped midstep and turned around, poking his head in the door. “Yes?” Both dwarves gestured for him to come in and shut the door behind him.

Confused, the monk leaned against the door. “When I said I was willing to participate,” he joked to play off his suspicion, “I meant with Drizzt and Artemis. This is a bit too much beard even for my tastes.”

Ambergris threw a pillow at him and nearly winded him with the blow. “Shut up, ye. Get over here. We need to ask ye to do somethin’.”

The monk took the pillow in his arms and crossed over, plopping down on the unoccupied bed and leaning over the footboard. “What’s wrong?” He asked, genuine concern building in his chest. Had something happened between the two of them? Between Drizzt and Artemis? They had been acting rather tense around each other for the bulk of the journey to Silverymoon. Was Ambergris still planning to take Artemis’s leg? He seemed to be getting better.

“I wanted to ask ye,” Ambergris said, holding up her hand to stifle any protests from Athrogate, “what Effron was studyin’ at the library when ye went to go get ‘im.”

Afafrenfere rocked back in his seat. “I,” he trailed off, struggling to recall, “I didn’t really get a good look at the books. I saw a map and some notes and then went to look for him. Why?”

“He was studyin’ infernal creatures,” Athrogate said, “I looked at some o’ his books. I think he’s looking for one.”

“What?” Afafrenfere laughed at the preposterous accusation. “You can’t be serious. Why would he do that?”

The two dwarves just looked at him.

“You want me to ask him?” The monk shook his head, “I’m not going to accuse him of things he didn’t do! He has enough of a hard time blending in with us _without_ baseless accusations.”

“I know what I saw ye-“

Ambergris held up her hand again, ultimately resting it on Athrogate’s shoulder. “We ain’t askin’ ye to accuse him of anything. Just pretend to be genuinely curious. See if ye can get him to tell ye somethin’. If he doesn’t just,” she paused, thinking, “keep an eye on ‘im. He likes ye, and if he’s gonna open up to anyone it’s ye or Drizzt. But, well,” She shrugged.

Afafrenfere nodded. Drizzt had enough to deal with outside of keeping the group together, a task that Ambergris had apparently taken on as her personal responsibility. It worried Afafrenfere at times just how much stress the dwarf put herself under and seeing her now the monk realized he was right to worry. She looked so tired and frustrated.

“Okay,” he said with a slight nod. It was because Ambergris was his friend and had done so much for him, he told himself, and not any mistrust of Effron. “I’ll talk to him.”

She smiled and thanked him, allowing him to leave after a short hug. On his way out, Afafrenfere was sure he could hear something grumbled behind him from Athrogate. It sounded suspiciously like, “I dun think he’s gonna do it.”

The monk shook it off and headed to his own room. As luck would have it, Effron was already there, lounging back on his bed looking at nothing in particular.  He started when Afafrenfere entered the room, as if he’d been surprised out of his thoughts.

“Hey,” the monk laughed, flashing the most disarming smile he possessed, “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Effron gave a little chuckle of his own, “It’s okay. I’ve just been really,” he hesitated, “scattered lately.”

“Are you alright?” Afafrenfere asked, concern edging its way back into his thoughts. When Effron didn’t answer immediately, the human sat at the foot of his bad. “What’s wrong?”

The tiefling shook his head.

A wave of frustration caused Afafrenfere to grind his teeth. Stubborn stoicism was such an aggravating quality in people. He supposed that anger was a tad hypocritical; he’d done the same thing to Ambergris back in the day. Regardless, Effron’s unwillingness to let Afafrenfere in was aggravating. Swallowing the burn of frustration, he patted Effron’s leg.

“Talk to me,” he said gently, “You’ve been so distant. It’s like you’re avoiding everyone. What’s going on?”

The warlock sighed. He looked so tired, more so than he did when he went days without sleep. “I’m a little overwhelmed,” he confessed. “This is difficult. For all of us. I just want to help.”

Something tightened in Afafrenfere’s chest. He knew that tone of voice so well. He’d mastered back when Parbid loomed over his life like drunken slavemaster. “It’s okay. You don’t need to have all the answers in order to help us, Effron.”

The tiefling lifted his gaze, his head tilted curiously to one side.

“What was it you were looking for?” Afafrenfere asked, hoping to kill two birds with one stone and comfort Effron while getting Ambergris’s information. “What is it that’s overwhelmed you?”

Effron sighed, “It doesn’t matter. I didn’t find anything of value.”

“Effron-“

The warlock’s gaze drifted up to the ceiling. His horns knocked against the wall. Another sigh huffed through his nose. He seemed so resigned.

“You know,” Afafrenfere said. A nervous knot formed in his stomach and made his words falter. Was this too presumptuous? Too forward? Did that matter? “That you can trust me. If you need someone to talk to or you feel low, I’ll listen and try to help you. No matter how ridiculous the reason for it seems. Okay?”

Effron closed his eyes, a sad smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. He tried to speak, but his voice cracked a little and he gave up right away. Afafrenfere moved his hand from Effron’s leg to his hand, attempting to rub some warmth into it. “Thank you,” the warlock eventually said, “But I don’t think I-“

“Take your time,” Afafrenfere said, easy and gentle, “I know how it feels.”

“I don’t know if we’ll survive the Sundering if Szass Tam strikes out with force.” Effron said suddenly, face grim.

Afafrenfere’s smile fell away. “What?”

“I think the world is ending.” The warlock said. “I don’t think we can stop it if the gods don’t come back in time.”

“Is that what you were researching?” Afafrenfere asked.

Effron shifted his weight. “In a way,” he said. “I was looking for a way I might be able to help you guys when you stand against him. And knowing Drizzt and Ambergris that’s a very real possibility. My necromancy training is going to be no match for him and I-“ he sighed, “I want to be useful.”

“You’re plenty useful, Effron.” Afafrenfere attempted to reassure him, squeezing his hand.

Something in the look the warlock gave him told Afafrenfere that he didn’t agree in the slightest.


	9. Living Specimens

“How is it I’m always gettin’ saddled with these jobs?” the dwarf grumbled, staring up at the barely-lit canopy of trees overhead, fallen leaves poking at any and all exposed skin and making him itch. Twice now in this expedition alone, had his heavy boots caught slick patch of underbrush, and he was in no hurry to get back up and make it three.

Afafrenfere, on the other hand, just like every other time they’d been out here, seemed to find the second fall much more hilarious than the first. “Come now,” he tried to say around his snickering, “it’s not so bad.” He slid down the slope, twigs and leaves cracking beneath his soft shoes, to stand beside the prone dwarf.

Athrogate snorted, “Speak fer yerself, lightfoot.” He did not deny Afafrenfere’s hand when the monk offered it and was surprised at how easily the boy lifted him to his feet. “I’m a dwarf,” he spat as he tried to brush off some of the foliage trapped in his hair and armor, but only really succeeded in embedding it all deeper, “I don’t belong in the forest.” Eventually he gave up with an indignant sigh, “I thought this was why we had a damn ranger.”

When Athrogate turned the monk was giving him a pointed look that was argument enough for Drizzt’s not being there and that the discussion did not bear repeating a second time. He got a harsh “bah!” and half-hearted wave for the look.

“Let’s just get this over with then.”

Afafrenfere resumed his place at the front of their two person company. He hoped that this time the dwarf had finally learned his lesson and would continue to let him lead. His eyes swept the wide circle of area made visible by the light of his torch and wondered about what lurked in the black shadows between the trees. Occasionally, he’d see another spot of orange light, another party wandering too close.

Behind them, the lights of Silverymoon left a dim, grey cloud on the sky.

A long while passed with only the _swish_ and _crunch_ beneath their feet was the only noise audible, when something caught their attention. A large arrow shaft sticking out of a tree, the fletching simple and several others like it lay scattered around the area with splatters of blood and churned earth poking up amongst the leaves. The air grew cool as the pair drew closer.

Afafrenfere let out a loud whistle.

“The fight goes this way,” Athrogate told him when the monk jogged up to his side. He pointed out the path of piled brush and rents in the dirt. “Looks like it was supposed to be an ambush,” he pointed to another trail, slightly less obvious, opposite the way they’d come. “But whatever they were thinkin’ o’ gettin’ the jump on was ready for ‘em” pointing to the arrows, “and pushed ‘em back.”

The two followed the path the combatants took, Afafrenfere whistling a few more times as they progressed. They stopped again in a spacious dirt clearing with the remains of fire pits and several corpses strewn about the area. Most of the bodies were still, huge arrows sticking out of their faces, torsos, and arms or entire sections of their bodies missing. A few, however, were still struggling to move around, despite being pinned to trees, or torn in half. They turned toward the two living creatures.

“One hell of a fight,” Afafrenfere commented with a disconcerted laugh. “I’d hate to find myself on the other end of that bow.”

“No kidding.” Athrogate nodded, directing the monk where to point his torch so they could survey the area better.

About halfway through their investigation a pair of Silverymoon rangers caught up with them. They seemed confused at the sight for a moment, but didn’t comment before going in and rounding up the creatures they could.

Their group brought two of the creatures back to the city. A second brought two more from an battle of their own. The collection of mages ready to meet them at the gates thought that four was a pitiful result of a day’s expedition but said no more aloud when the weary faces of the hunting party bore down upon them.

-0-0-0-0-0-

It might have been a hulking creature, massive in both height and breadth, but it did not lumber about. Much to the necromancer’s pleasure, his construct moved with the grace and readiness of the fighter it had been in life. There were still issues, of course. Its vision was still faulty, the grip of its freshly-attached arm still a bit too loose for Draygo’s liking, and when it _spoke-_

Draygo made a soft, disgusted noise and resolved not to think about his creature speaking out of turn, or speaking at all for that matter. Surely there had to be a way to fix that without maiming the physical form further.

He watched it wander about, swinging its heavy, black sword to test grip and dexterity as its master had commanded. When it was ready, Drago sent a few zombies out at it. They were mowed down instantly.

Perfect. Now, for something stronger.

Reaching into the folds of his robes, Draygo hunted down his hastily scrawled notes about guard and caravan routes in and out of Neverwinter. A few mercenaries or armored guards seemed just the right test of skill.

A snap of his fingers, a shouted command, and the construct was following him between the trees to a beaten dirt path. Draygo found a well-shadowed space to stage an ambush, gesturing for the construct to hide and wait patiently. He decided to give the creature a final once-over up close while they waited.

It still needed armor. The scraps of leather and metal that protected its vital areas were horribly insufficient in the necromancer’s opinion. Briefly, Draygo considered his options for acquiring such equipment. Perhaps piecemeal from foes when the siege began? An appeal to Szass Tam for custom work? Draygo shuddered at the idea. No.

One wouldn’t be able to tell from the quality of its voice, but the face of his creation was horribly mangled and he saw little reason to fix it. It was a stomach-churning sight. Bone lay exposed and grey at its cheekbones and where its nose should have been. The entire upper lip and most of the front teeth were gone. The lower jaw had to be sewn on with thick bands of black wire. Milky eyes followed the necromancers as he moved around seeming out of place in cobbled together sockets, ready to fall out at a moment’s notice.

Hoofbeats came up the path. A lone man in fine armor that glittered in the light of his lantern, riding a great, grey horse drew near. Draygo squinted at the man, briefly concerned. Then, he remembered the state of clerical magic and all thoughts of the turning or other destruction of his creation melted away. He issued a short, easy command and stepped aside to watch.

Man and horse passed by them, only to stop a short distance away. The rider scanned the area, shoulders tense, brow low. Clicking his tongue, he urged his horse back the way they’d come. He squinted into the darkness and drew his weapon.

“I can sense you there, servant of evil,” he warned blindly at the darkness, his tone not loud enough to draw undue attention, but enough to give authority to his words. When nothing happened, he spoke again. “Show yourself.”

As soon as he turned his head away to survey the other side, of the road, Draygo’s construct stepped forward. It took hold of the arm holding the man’s lantern and, with a single, supernaturally-strong tug, wrenched him from his saddle.

The battle that followed was by no means one-sided. Both man and steed stood against the creature. Early on, the man landed a blow to the stitching on the construct’s arm and knocked the limb free. Draygo made a note to reinforce the bindings when he reattached it later. That wasn’t the only note Draygo made, but he was proudest to say that his construct did not fall to the blade of a paladin.

Beaten and bloodied, the human struggled to regain his footing after a devastating blow to his hip. His horse paced about nearby, head low, ears flat, waiting for an opening or a command.

“Hold,” Draygo said, raising his hand to stop his creature from landing a killing blow. He stepped out of the shadows, the light of the fallen lantern offering him a view of the man’s scowl. “I want him alive.”

The paladin spat blood at Draygo’s feet. The construct kicked him in the ribs.

The necromancer’s creation attempted to argue with its master; the last vestiges of free will still clinging despite all of Draygo’s hard work. The necromancer waved his hand and told the creature to be silent.

And it was.

A smile spread across Draygo Quick’s face.

-0-0-0-0-0-

He met her on the guildhouse grounds. Well, not so much _met_ as _snuck up on_ and nearly got punched in the face for his efforts. She pushed his shoulder roughly when she recognized him. “You can’t be here. If Guildmaster Raven sees you-“

“I know where your key leads,” Hugo interrupted to get her attention. “Or- I think I do. And it isn’t the town hall.”

Glenda stopped pushing him. Instead, she took him by the arm and dragged him into a shadowy corner of the building and whispered, “What? Where does it go then?”

“The castle! I checked,” Hugo explained, gesturing with almost every word, “every entrance I knew for that place. Looked at as many keys on the guys stationed there as I could. None of them looked like yours.” His tone turned thoughtful. “I think there might be another store. A _real_ one with all the supplies. That might not be as heavily guarded yet.”

The girl rocked back on her heels, brow arching curiously, “I don’t-“

“The guards are leading everyone on,” he said with a small amount of frustration. “They want people to think all the goods are stored at the town hall so if they storm it nothing would be lost.”

Glenda stood there, blinking at him for some time before adding with great skepticism, “And you think the real one is in that castle?”

Hugo narrowed his eyes at her. “Where else?” he asked, holding out his hands. “It’s the most defensible place in the city.”

“Town hall,” Glenda suggested over him, “where they’ve been telling everyone it is for weeks.” When he was quiet, she continued, “I was in there, remember? I saw a store room with sacks and barrels and-“

He interrupted her with, “Those are probably just filled with grain and water left over from the earthquakes.” He took a step to the side and added, “Town hall is at the center of the market square. It’s open on two sides and has entirely too many windows and doors. If the people here ever rebelled, which it looks like they might, they could take it easy. The guards,” the finality in his voice spoke of experience with such people, “wouldn’t be so stupid to store the very last of the town’s supplies there.”

“I’d like to have more than just your word to go on,” she wanted to believe him, but her doubt was too much to overcome.

Hugo sighed, “If we had the time, I’d say watching where the guards go after their shifts-“

“You didn’t do that already?”

“ _I’m_ not the one that needs convincing,” he snipped back. “I came here as soon as I figured it out. If you still wanna get in, we’d have to go as soon as we can. Before they miss the key and change the locks.”

Glenda rocked from foot to foot nervously. “I should get permission from the guildmaster-“

The boy nearly scoffed but stopped himself short. After what had happened at the square last time he had little doubt that her guildmaster wanted to track her every movement. But getting permission for things always took time and a key like that didn’t stay missing for long without someone getting wise. This might be their only chance. “Didn’t she assign you this mission in the first place?” he argued, “Don’t you want to see it completed?”

She was quiet for a long time, weighing her options. She looked back to the door, watching it with bated breath expecting it to open any moment. When it didn’t and he chest started to burn, she let out the breath with a sigh.

“Okay,” Glenda turned back to the boy, “we’ll go. Just to case the place. Maybe get some proof the store is really there and I’ll report back.”

Hugo nodded, but crinkled his nose at the last bit. “Fine,” he agreed, “but if we see an opening, I suggest we take it. There might be no other opportunities.”

The girl didn’t respond, but she smirked a bit with a look of determination. She might not have wanted to officially agree to his terms, in case someone overheard, but she was up for the challenge.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Afafrenfere came to fetch them as soon as the city guards allowed the volunteers to leave. He explained all that happened in hurried tones bordering on the shrill; Athrogate’s speculation on the fight in the clearing, the rangers’ theory on where the undead had come from.

“Are they certain?” Drizzt couldn’t help but ask, voice uneasy.

The monk gave a sheepish shrug, “They sounded like it.”

Artemis chimed in before Drizzt could fret further, “It’s not unheard of. Neverwinter Wood has been a haven for undead for decades now.”

The drow turned to argue with him but stopped short. He forgot the jaunt in Icewind Dale and all the time lost more often than any of the others. A fact Artemis never ceased to tease him about. “I suppose you’re right,” he conceded, hoping that would be then end of it.

“Of course I am.”

It wasn’t clear if the punch Drizzt dealt to Entreri’s arm was for the comment or the smug look that followed. Regardless, the assassin still scolded him for hitting a man on crutches and what was wrong with him, he could have fallen over. The ranger only rolled his eyes and replied that such complaining was unbecoming.

Effron, lingering in the back of the group, made no effort to hide his smile at the little moment of normalcy. That smile faded once they’d caught up to Athrogate in the city square.

“They haven’t done anything yet,” the dwarf informed them, “Thinkin’ they might be nervous or somethin’”

A small crowd had gathered already and was steadily growing. Otherwise unoccupied townspeople leaned against each other and peered over shoulders on tiptoe to get a better look without getting too close. At the center of the wide semicircle of people were the captured undead. Four creatures held with thick iron chains around their necks and arms were fastened in pairs to iron rings in the stones of the street where the stocks usually were. Grey, taut skin on the dead faces pulled and split as they gnashed their teeth and lunged at anyone closer than the rest.

Effron could see differences in them, even from such a great distance. These weren’t all made by the same person. His were swept the crowd for someone in charge, waiting for an announcement of any kind. He saw little more than a few armed guards and clerics keeping the thrill-seeking at a safe distance.

It wasn’t until his third pass over the see of faces that he saw the mages standing at the other side of the empty space. Their backs were turned, shoulders drawn up, conferring among themselves and occasionally shooting a worried glance at the creatures.

The warlock fought every urge to make an exasperated noise of frustration. What a surprise, they had no real necromancers to deal with this problem. He should have known. Necromancy had always been largely frowned upon by the mages at large, hells, by the population in general, unless it directly benefitted them. Oh the looks of horror on someone’s face when they were referred to a necromancer when trying to resurrect a fallen comrade. But, and even more so now after Szass Tam’s rise to power in the east, fear of the necromantic vocation had grown to the point of outlawing the practice in some places. _Well_ , Effron thought smugly at the group of scared mages _how is that working out?_

Whispers began to rise among the crowd the longer the mages did nothing about this. The guards looked to them, they looked to the clerics and everyone seemed a bit hopeless.

“Oh for the love of-“ Effron muttered under his breath when he could bear the inaction no longer. “I haven’t the time for this.” He stepped around his friends and into the clear space.

“What’re ye-“ he heard Ambergris hiss behind him only to be drowned out by and explosion of conversation in the gathering.

One of the guards came up to try and stop him or push him back into the crowd. Effron stopped him with a sharp look and a plain, unthreatening, “I can get you information if you want it. Just let me pass,” and cracked his knuckles against his thigh. The guard didn’t stop him, but also didn’t leave his side. The man nervously lingered a short distance away, hand resting on the hilt of his weapon, waiting for Effron to make one wrong move. The warlock paid him no mind.

He was a little out of practice. So much of his time had been dedicated to crafting objects and theory than true necromancy, but he didn’t dwell too much on the thought. One does not forget these sorts of endeavors, not for long anyway.

Effron approached the chained creatures, stopping just a hair farther than what their arms would have been able to reach had they not been so chained to the ground. He observed each closely. With a single, rough jerk of his arm, he rolled up his sleeve.

Ghouls, the whole lot of them. Two in red cloth looking around the crowd hungrily waiting for an opening one of whom swayed on one leg due to an arrow in the other, one a female in simple peasant clothes and deep gash in her hand that nearly severed two of her fingers, and a fourth in armor that followed his every move.

When he’d gathered all the information he could without getting close, Effron took a deep breath. He took several more as he cleared his thoughts and tried to remember the steps of the spell. Once he knew he had it, he brought his wrist up and sank his sharp teeth into his own arm. He jumped a bit and the jolt of pain; normally he would have used his limp arm or another, unsuspecting apprentice for this sort of thing. He pulled it away and let it rest at his side, until a small trail of red inched down his arm far enough to reach his palm. Then, he held it out toward the first of the creatures, chanting softly as he did so.

Hollow, glowing eyes all turned toward him now. Mouths, lines of viscous, black saliva dripping from cracked and bloody teeth, opened wide.

When he was sure he had the undivided attention of one, he snapped his fingers. All the ghouls blinked in unison at the sound. Continuing his chant he moved onto the next. His movements were slow, methodical, he wasn’t about to waste time and effort on a quick casting that might not take.

Each ghoul received similar treatment; a chant, eye contact, and a snap that made them all blink, before Effron returned to his original position at the center of the space. All eyes living and dead watched him closely in guarded silence. The warlock held up his bloody hand, palm down, letting fat drops fall to the stones at his feet. He said several words, very quietly and the few that could still hear him could not understand the language he spoke.

He lowered his hand in a swift, sudden motion, as if slamming it upon a nonexistent table, with a single, very forceful command, “Submit.”

The ghouls were still. Their mouths closed.

“Kneel.”

They did.

Whispers erupted anew all around him. The guards looked about with newfound nervous energy, unsure of what to do with this sudden display. The mages’ conversation ceased abruptly and they all turned to watch with great interest.

Effron barely noticed the change; too focused with blocking out the waves of rage and hunger that could be felt in his very soul that typically came with the rebelling minds of the dead with a practiced ease he had worried he would lack. He approached the nearest ghoul close enough to touch and examined it much more closely. A small smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth when the crowd gasped collectively as he touched it to tilt its chin up.

The creature in red wanted to resist, but couldn’t overpower Effron’s command. Neither could the one next to it. Effron took a breath in relief. These weren’t crafted by masters. Maybe, apprentices or the newly enlisted? With a series of short words, Effron ordered the ghouls to hold out their arms, so he might inspect wrists, hands, and elbows, bare their teeth, open their mouths impossibly wide, and ultimately, tilt their heads downward to watch the ground as he moved on to the next.

When he backed away from the two in red, he turned to the guard who was still following at a safe distance. “These are Thayan,” he said, “Probably from a stockpile or maybe scouts from a larger force. They’re made for stamina and speed. Their connections to their masters are too weak for direct control. They should not be here.”

The guard nodded along as if he understood. Effron heard some of the members of his own group utter, “Neverwinter” with certainty.

Next, came the female. Much like her wounded comrade in red, her wounds were sustained after her turning; they lacked the bruising and vein patterns typical of living wounds. Effron gave her the same commands as the first two, checking the same places for clues. This one growled more, even opened her mouth to bite at him a few times, and tugged ceaselessly on her chains to get her hands free enough to claw at him. _A stronger will made this one,_ Effron reasoned with a small frown, _but an ill-focused one._ The warlock pressed his thumb between her glowing eyes and a small blue flame licked at his hand. He retracted his arm before she could gain enough control at the smell of his blood to take a bite.

“Someone of higher rank made this one. Still a Thayan force, it seems.” He said in the space between her and the last one. He gave no firm conclusions other than, “I don’t think Szass Tam made it himself, though. It’s too simple.”

“Most of the dead ones we found,” Afafrenfere’s voice called behind him, “looked like her. Simple clothes, blue glow, and all that.”

Effron turned slightly in the direction of the voice, “How many, exactly?”

There was a pause. Effron couldn’t see him in the crowd, but he imagined him shrugging. Eventually an unfamiliar voice answered his question, one of the rangers, “Eight total in plain dress. The two in red were the only ones of their kind found and the armored one was caught in the farthest snare.”

“Retreating?” Effron asked, looking pointedly at the ghoul in question.

“It seemed that way, yes.”

Effron scowled, grateful that his back was to the crowd. There was no way-

He gave the creature the same orders as the others and was met with even greater resistance. He had to give every command twice and on more than one occasion, he was forced to reissue the call of submission. This one was meticulously made; most signs of death not present, well armored and focused despite being far enough from its master for Effron to openly control it. The warlock felt his blood turn cold. No. It couldn’t be.

The order for the creature to open its mouth was met with the most rebellion of all the orders. It snarled at him and strained against its irons.

“You are far from your master,” Effron said in a calm tone, laced with something lower and much more sinister, “They cannot reach you. I am your master now. _Submit to me._ Do as I command.” It shuddered and with jerking movements and an unearthly noise of pain, anger, and something else not easily identified, it obeyed.

The warlock had to crouch to get a good look for what he was after. Against the odds he was hoping not to see the tiny black shape that was most definitely branded at the roof of the creature’s mouth. A jolt of alarm shot through him, forming a knot in his throat and a pit in his chest.

The ghoul felt Effron’s resolve falter and lunged for him. Gasps and exclamations of horror sounding around him like the splash of a stone in water.

Not to be caught off guard when dealing with such monsters, Effron sprang back and to his feet. He stomped a solid, angry kick to the creature’s face with the heel of his boot. The warlock drew back to a safe distance, knowing better than to linger.

The guard asked him about the last one and, after taking a moment to compose himself, Effron replied, “I cannot be sure.” He stammered a little, pretending to be more shaken up than he actually was, “It isn’t Thayan, I don’t think. It’s stronger than the others too. I’ll- I’ll look into it and tell you what I find, if anything.” He paused awkwardly, expecting the guard to dismiss him or ask him more questions.

Starting to feel the weight of the crowd’s gaze upon him, Effron stammered out a suggestion on how to be rid of the current prisoners and ducked back into, now much larger, throng of people in search of his companions. They found him first, Ambergris taking him by the hand and wrapping up his arm tight enough to stop the bleeding for now.

“Impressive display,” Entreri commented when they were out of earshot of the crowd, “One might have mistaken you for someone trained by a proper necromancer there for a moment.”

“Hilarious,” Effron shot back, his good humor fading immediately.

Drizzt was the first to notice the change. “Is something wrong? You seem shaken.”

“He was almost bitten in the face,” Afafrenfere said, only to stop his own argument abruptly when Effron shook his head.

“That’s not it. I- No. Not here. Others might hear.”

Interested looks became ones of worry and they all swiftly made their way back to the inn.

“I know who made these,” Effron told them, peering out the window once they were safely back in Drizzt and Artemis’s shared room. “Specifically.”

“Why didn’t you-“ Drizzt tried to ask but Effron just kept talking right over him as if he’d said nothing at all.

“Valindra Shadowmantle made most of them. The ones in plainclothes.” He explained, “They’re well crafted, but haphazardly controlled and too numerous to come from someone with real focus.” He sighed, “Szass Tam must be stabilizing her. The Spellfire is his and the thing was practically oozing it. And it wasn’t on the other Thayan constructs.”

One of the dwarves snorted but no one could tell which one. Ambergris was the one that spoke, “That ain’t exactly a _leap,_ Eff. Undead comin’ out o’ Neverwinter? Who else would make ‘em?”

“That isn’t-“ Effron started only to sigh in frustration. “That isn’t what I’m worried about.” He grew paler as the thought of what he had to tell them grew stronger, “The armored one wasn’t Thayan at all.”

“Szass Tam’s hirin’ outside help?” Athrogate looked about to Artemis, then to Ambergris, before returning to Effron, “that don’t sound like him.”

 “Necromancers are,” a pause, “prideful creatures. Especially the masters. Most have calling cards that link specific monstrosities to them. I didn’t think-“

“Out with it, man!”

“The armored ghoul was made by Draygo Quick,” the warlock blurted. He added hurriedly, “I saw his insignia. He only brands the ones he makes himself.”

A hush fell over the room as the group processed the weight of Effron’s words.

“He must have-“ the tiefling stammered, desperate to fill the silence as if Draygo’s involvement could have somehow been made his fault. “I don’t know. Survived? Turned to lichdom? Something. I just- I don’t understand why he would be working with _Szass Tam_ of all people. Draygo’s never had a kind word to say about Thay or its leadership. And I-“

“Effron, calm down.” Afafrenfere said gently.

“Are you certain?” Entreri asked when Effron caught his breath.

The tiefling sighed, “Yes. Draygo has a very specific brand he uses and his craftsmanship is unmistakeable to me. I’ve seen enough foregeries to know this isn’t one. I have no doubts.”

“Neverwinter is in danger,” Drizzt breathed after a long silence threatened to choke them all out of the room. “Thay’s minions have already tried taking it once. They’ll do it again.”

“Neverwinter is _lost_ ,” Artemis corrected. “Their force is large enough that stragglers are reaching _this far_. That city is barely populated and poorly guarded. There’s nothing there.”

“There are _people_ there,” the drow bit back, “Those people will _die._ ”

“So will we if we help ‘em,” Athrogate said before Artemis could get out a reply. “We’re not in the best o’ shape. Even if we got there in time, the most we could do is fortify the city. But it’d never survive a real siege. Not in these conditions.”

Afafrenfere attempted to side with Drizzt. “Maybe if we could get close to take out the necromancers-“

“A crazed lich, a master, a dread ring that goes directly to one of the most powerful liches on the planet and who knows how many underlings,” Effron countered. “Even if we got through their wall of dead, Valindra _alone_ would take all of us to take on. And then she’d just come back in a few days because her phylactery is probably in Thay by now.”

“Then we don’t fight Valindra,” Drizzt snapped, “I almost killed Quick once, I can do it again. And if we take out enough underlings we could cripple their force for a while.”

Ambergris, who had been shifting in her seat on the bed with her brow furrowed for the entire argument spoke up in the loud, authoritative tone of a mother sick of hearing her children bicker, “And just _how_ pray tell, do you suppose we get past the line? Fighting?” She held out an open hand to Artemis, but still looked pointedly at Drizzt, “He can barely walk,” the hand moved to point at the ranger, “Ye’ve proven to be unreliable in combat the last, what? Two? Three? Times we’ve attempted.” She pointed to herself, “And I can’t turn or cast anything useful.” She lowered her hand, “Goin’ in and trying to turn the tide of a war like this isn’t heroic, boy, it’s _damn foolish._ And I won’t be havin’ ye getting _anyone_ killed this way. Yerself included.”

That shut everyone up.

Ambergris, her tone once more calm, broke the silence. “But,” she said, still looking at Drizzt, “I can’t in good conscience, be leavin’ the innocent to die anymore that ye can. Not in this manner. It goes against everythin’ I was trained to be.” She turned to the group, “I say we go to Neverwinter and try to get the people out. Let Szass Tam have the city if he wants it so damn badly, but not let him rend any more souls to do it.”

No one argued with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's taken me so long to update. Transferring to a new uni and moving to a new town has been eating up so much of my time. Hopefully, I'll be able to get back to my regular writing habits soon. Thanks for your patience.


	10. Cracking Around the Edges

He was tapping the ledger and staring at Kimmuriel with a deep scowl. The psionicist, wary of such a look, shut the door slowly behind him. The door, perhaps spiteful from lack of use over recent weeks, creaked defiantly. Swallowing every saucy quip he could have possibly said, the standing drow clasped his hands behind his back. He said, in as cool a tone as was possible, “Is something wrong with the ledger?”

“You know what’s wrong with the ledger,” Jarlaxle shot back. He spun the large tome around and leaned forward enough to tap the page soundly just above the large red dash three quarters of the way down. “What is it you’re funding, Oblodra?”

The psionicist sighed and quickly made mental notes of his options for possible replies. He hadn’t taken _that_ much money. Nothing compared to the massive expenditures poured into the new lodgings, travel, or supplies. It was just barely enough to be considered travel money at best. Yet Jarlaxle still noticed its missing. When did he find out? Who had told him?

Not knowing just how much information Jarlaxle had, and with no way to find out in immediate reach, Kimmuriel offered something akin to the truth. “I was cementing an alliance,” he said. When Jarlaxle’s unsatisfied scowl didn’t let up, he added with great reluctance, “I was called upon by a powerful potential ally. A bargain was proposed and I kept up my end of it and I used as little as possible to do so.” He tacked on a remorseful sounding, “I did not think it would be so acutely missed,” for good measure.

“You’re being intentionally vague,” Jarlaxle accused, leaning back in his chair, the picture of calm authority. It was still a strange picture for Kimmuriel to see, even though he’d been seeing much of it lately. “ _Who_ is this ally?”

Kimmuriel bit his tongue when the urge to tell Jarlaxle off rose up again. “No one from Menzoberranzan,” he answered, hoping that would be enough.

It wasn’t. “That is not a comforting notion.”

The psionicist took a deep breath and explained, “I have, for the time being, been sworn into secrecy. For the safety of this contact, myself, and the guild. To break such an arrangement would be not only to terminate the alliance, but potentially get a great many people, both his and ours, killed. I do not believe we can afford such things happening.” He tried to inject as much sincerity into his words as possible. Not that it was necessary, given everything he had said was true enough, but he wanted Jarlaxle to stop staring at him like he was aiming a dagger at his face. It was disconcerting.

The mercenary leader relaxed a little. “What benefit is this contact to us?” he asked, “Since you can’t say names, I’d at least like to be aware of professions and skills.”

“A strategist,” Kimmuriel replied “and a valuable potential spy if inclined to be such; I doubt we will find another like him in the near future.”

He could see the dots connecting in Jarlaxle’s mind through the look on his face. How he wished he could actually see the thoughts themselves. The ruby in Jarlaxle’s eyepatch glittered every time he made an attempt to peer just past the veil that separated expression from thought; laughing at his inability to pass it. A smile ghosted across Jarlaxle’s face, aware of the psionicist’s attempts, and mocking him.

_Get me to take it off this time. Just try._ Kimmuriel imagined him thinking.

“You should have consulted me,” Jarlaxle said, finally breaking the silence and pulling Kimmuriel from his thoughts. “I have not given you the authority to act in such ways without direct permission. If this alliance does not prove worthwhile, that will be _your_ burden, not your contact’s.”

Kimmuriel nodded once, stepping away from the door so Jarlaxle could pass him. “Had I thought there was time or if I had the ability to say more, I would have. But it seemed prudent that I act-“

Jarlaxle rose from his chair and stopped in front of the Oblodra, his face taking on a stern mask once more. “Do not lie to me, Kimmuriel.”

He was silent for some time.

“I considered consulting you directly,” Kimmuriel amended “and thought it better if I left you in the dark. The fewer people who know about this, the better.”

Jarlaxle turned to leave in the thoughtful, loaded silence that followed. Several seconds passed and the Oblodra heard no signs of the mercenary actually leaving as he crossed the room to his desk. “Kimmuriel,” Jarlaxle called, sounding very far away.

“Yes?” the psionicist leaned against his desk, not turning to see if Jarlaxle was looking at him.

A small laugh, “Kimmuriel, this is getting ridiculous.”

“I don’t know what you mean-“

“Yes you do.”

Kimmuriel breathed deep, feeling the bite of irritation wash away for a moment. “I do,” he sighed. This thing, this horrid tension that was ever growing between them was starting to get out of control. Kimmuriel was still, for all intents and purposes, second in command and yet he and the one person above him could not stay on the same plane. It would have been endlessly hilarious to the Oblodra if he had heard of such a thing happening to anyone other than himself and wouldn't have believed anyone that tried to warn him prior.

“Meet me on the roof in a few hours,” Jarlaxle was saying when Kimmuriel’s attention returned, “We’ll settle this.”

He didn’t answer and, when he heard the door shut behind him, realized he didn’t have to.

-0-0-0-0-0-

She stood before the pile of bones, arms crossed and head tilted. “What is this?” she asked, to no one in particular.

“They appear to be bones, Lady Shadowmantle,” Draygo Quick replied as he approached.

The lich leveled her curious gaze at him. “Yet they are in a pile, not a form.”

“A pile arguably _is_ a form.” He shot back. When her head tilted the other way so quickly the bones in her neck cracked, Draygo added, “They have not been tended to yet. I’ve been seeing to other endeavors.”

“What task is this that requires bones so large?” She was accusing him of something, inching closer to him. He could smell the death on her, when she finally stopped, and something else, lilies? “Has Szass Tam given you some assignment? Or do you act alone, Shadovar wretch. Answer me!”

“If you would allow me the time to answer,” Quick snapped back. “I would tell you that I am doing this task for the good of the invasion.”

Valindra turned her attention back to the bones. “What is it?” She demanded.

“An ace to secure our victory.”

She sneered at the massive pile of bleached white before her. “I dislike vaguery,” she snippily commented, “it implies that one is lying. How unfortunate that would be if I reported this to Szass Tam and found out that you were acting _against_ his wishes.”

Draygo almost laughed. He imagined the look on her face when Szass Tam told her that he had given Draygo the assignment personally. He thought better of it almost immediately.

“Nonsense. I just would like some time to get everything in order and know what I have the materials and manpower to make before asserting my future successes is all. Unlike some-” he deflected her irritated gaze with a defiant arch of his brow. “Now, leave me and let me work.”

She stayed where she was.

“If I make you an offer will you leave?” he sighed. It was like talking to a child. Actually, when Draygo thought about it, most of the children he’d dealt with were much better behaved than Valindra. “I have captured a paladin that is in prime physical and spiritual health. It will take some whittling to get him where he needs to be and it appears,” he gestured to the bones, “that I have run out of free time. A trade? My space for him?”

Valindra did not answer him. She simply walked out and took the bound man. Draygo’s construct started after her and he had to order it to heel before she disassembled it.

“No,” he told the creature when it protested. “We have bigger things to focus on.” He began giving it commands on where to place pieces. Judging by the size of the pile all of them were present now. Though, given their size it would be impossible to tell until they were all laid out to see.

It was going to be a long night, Draygo noted, and he preferred it that way.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Kimmuriel had told himself he wasn’t going to go to Jarlaxle’s office. He wasn’t going to go to the roof. He was not, by any means, going to play any more of Jarlaxle’s petty little games of power and punishment. He resolved to be the mature adult and just put the ugly business aside in favor of productivity and remember to be more careful when exercising freedom in the future. The psionicist reminded himself time and again as he worked that he would most certainly not go to the meeting the mercenary leader had suggested.

So, when he found himself leaning against the windowsill in Jarlaxle’s office when his work was finished instead of in his own room, he was rather surprised to be there. The garishly-colored curtains eerily still on either side of him. The psionicist watched the street for bystanders in an attempt to pretend he wasn’t considering taking up Jarlaxle’s offer of a meeting just in case someone happened upon him in there. But there was no one around to catch him.

He turned about and sat against the windowsill staring at the opposite wall with an intensity that could have burned a hole through it had he been so inclined. Small bits of jewelry rattled on their hooks under the intensity of his gaze; some even fell, hook and all, to the plush secondhand sofa below.

The roof. Kimmuriel wondered briefly if this was Jarlaxle’s way of finally turning their tensions into hostilities by making an attempt on his life. The building wasn’t very tall, and he was sure that he’d catch himself before hitting the ground, but such an endeavor would be enough to get the point across. Or, Jarlaxle could have been planning a proper assassination attempt from afar and the meeting was just a way to rile Kimmuriel into distraction.

The psionicist closed his eyes and listened. He could hear the thoughts, concerns, and complaints of the other mercenaries. Distantly he heard a human wife worrying for a husband out too late, young voices considering the options for a potential break in. No assassins or even hints of such plots.

Again, Kimmuriel turned, this time in his seat to lean halfway out and eye the edge of the roof, washed in warm orange by the streetlamps the humans insisted on keeping lit. He strained his hearing, both physical and mental, and heard only silence.

He could leave. He could always just leave and ignore the request, let things continue in the aggravating but predictable way they were and resign himself to them always being that way.

Kimmuriel swung his legs over the sill and pushed off, stopping midair as if he’d simply hopped into a shallow pool of water, and floated upwards, stepping down on the clay shingles with hardly a sound.

Jarlaxle was waiting for him about halfway across the building from where Kimmuriel landed. He looking out over the glowing city, hands clasped behind his back, body unnaturally still. The mercenary had forsaken what was left of his brightly-colored garb and sparkling jewelry in favor of neutral colors and well-worn leather armor. Even the ungodly purple color of his hat seemed muted in a way. As he turned to face his visitor, Kimmuriel found that the only part of Jarlaxle that could arrest an onlooker’s attention was the glinting red ruby set into his eyepatch. A childish part of the Oblodra seethed at the sight.

“I almost thought you wouldn’t come,” Jarlaxle commented as if they’d met in his office or the hall.

Swallowing any hints of worry or exasperation, Kimmuriel curtly replied, “You proposed we settle these matters. I would prefer to see them settled. I see no leaps of logic.”

The mercenary hummed thoughtfully, eyes never quite falling on Kimmuriel. “Do you know why we’re doing this here?”

_So you can push me off if things go badly_? The psionicist thought pointedly, but gave the idea no voice. “So the soldiers might not hear and see fractures in their leadership,” he answered as one might answer a teacher’s prompt. He remembered a good number of times, before all this surface nonsense, he and Jarlaxle had removed themselves to abandoned houses or the markets to argue battle tactics and return sometime later with a staged encounter for the lower ranking masses.

Jarlaxle nodded, “It’s good to know that you still understand the concept of united leadership even if you don’t exactly put it into practice.”

The Oblodra closed his eyes and bit the inside of his cheek. He’d walked right into that one. Not one to be made a fool of indefinitely, he turned to leave. “I have neither the time nor the patience for yet another browbeating from you, Jarlaxle. There is far too much work to be-“

“ _Stop._ ” Jarlaxle ordered, and Kimmuriel obeyed. He even turned to face the mercenary. “I said this needed to be settled and I meant it. No more games. No more pettiness or biting jokes.” He took a breath, readying himself for what was surely going to be a long ordeal. “You betrayed me,” he said. “And the others are beginning to whisper about why I have been willing to tolerate such a thing. Why you have been allowed to live despite everything you’ve done behind my back and to my face.” He held out his hands. “I find myself at a loss for answers. Heartless bastards and psionicists are not hard to find or hire.”

Kimmuriel folded his arms across his chest, brow arching. “I do not understand either. I have seen you deal with traitors in the past. The only reason I think probable is that you know what I did ultimately worked to your advantage. But even that seems a stretch.”

Jarlaxle scowled. “I gave you a privilege I should have known you didn’t deserve,” his voice took on a biting tone the more he spoke, “I opened a door I knew could be my undoing because I thought you loyal. And you used it against me. I can only hope to be sure in knowing what the reason is _not_ , lest I admit that I knew nothing about you to begin with.”

Frustration and insult bubbled into anger, filling his throat and spilling forward in a sharp, “I acted to _save_ the guild from your-“

He was cut short by Jarlaxle barking over him, “I _am_ the guild!”

Silence cut the space between them long enough for Jarlaxle to take a breath.

“If it was thought that the Bregan D’arethe could survive without me, do you think the priestess would have suffered my survival? This army has survived for _centuries_ under my banner and my banner _alone_ , Kimmuriel. It is little more than a group of bandits without my name attached to it. You cannot” he righted himself and collected his scattered composure, “say that you acted in its best interest in the same breath you use to admit to betraying me.”

Kimmuriel held Jarlaxle’s gaze after the latter had finished speaking. Frustration wrapped around his chest like an invisible harness keeping him strapped to a high ceiling; no matter how badly he wanted to break free, he knew the fall would kill him. His heart hammered against his chest and made him feel dizzy. The warm, stale air did nothing to clear his thoughts, no matter how deeply he breathed.

“What of the men?” he asked. “The standing contracts, the owed favors and unpaid debts?” Kimmuriel would have scolded himself if he could hear the bitterness that had been allowed to slip through. “Are they simply to be thrown aside and forgotten because _you_ deemed they don’t matter? Do we lose our value when you lose interest in favor of some _flight of whimsy_ far away?”

“’We?’” Jarlaxle scoffed, rocking back a bit. It wasn’t a taunting scoff either. It was a noise of surprise.

Kimmuriel stuttered; his face warm from his unconscious comparison of himself to Jarlaxle’s other underlings. He recovered quickly and stood in what he thought to be a calm silence. Saying anything more might have led to another slip he simply could not afford.

“Noble words,” the mercenary commented when the silence prompted him to speak, “A bit contradictory coming from you.”

“I attempted to give those men the security _you_ promised them,” Kimmuriel shot back. The look on Jarlaxle’s face changed and a slightly more aware Kimmuriel might have realized he’d revealed too much with that statement. As it was, he just kept going, “A responsibility I did not ask for, mind you.”

“A responsibility that was never _yours_ ,” Jarlaxle corrected him.

Kimmuriel shook his head, “You placed me in charge. I cannot maintain such a placement if there is nothing to be in charge _of_ , Jarlaxle. The Netherese would have marched on Menzoberranzan, Quenthel would have sent troops into the Clawrift. I saw it all play out in front of me, the rage the Baenres would have used to burn us alive if you interfered with the deal.” He sighed, deflating, “They would have destroyed us all, even you. She was resolved that if the Bregan D’aerthe was not loyal to her it no longer needed to exist.”

When he lifted his eyes again, Jarlaxle seemed the farthest from amused Kimmuriel had ever seen him. “Oh,” the mercenary taunted, bitterness making his voice dark and rough, “what? Am I supposed to dole out sympathies and forgiveness now? Is that supposed to make your abuse of the power I gave you because I thought you more _worthy_ than people who had been in my employ twice as long alright? Should I suddenly go back to trusting you now because you did something horrible with noble intentions?”

The psionicist blinked at him in surprise when the short diatribe was over. “Jarlaxle if I had ever expected your forgiveness I would not have done this thing.” The reply was laughably confused look. “What?” Kimmuriel laughed a little, mentally kicking himself at how hysterical it sounded, “Do you not think I understand the gravity of what I did? What it means, how it feels? Do you forget where I was before you entered my life? Who my matron, my sisters, my teachers were?” He shook his head, “I understand what I’ve done. And I cannot say that your anger is unjustified, but-“

He stopped short. If he continued on it would show his entire hand and Jarlaxle was not in a believing mood. It could ruin what little reputation he still had if anyone overheard or the mercenary leader had the mind to share such confessions.

Jarlaxle tilted his head curiously, impatiently prompting him to finish his sentence.

“But,” Kimmuriel said, cool and detached, “I would have you understand that my reasons were not personal. My intent was never to hu- to _slight_ you.” He covered the correction with a throat-clearing cough. “It was never to take what was yours. It was to secure it. Protect it.

“When you let me in,” he confessed, honesty prevailing in the face of Jarlaxle’s softening expression, “I saw so much. _Too much_. Doors that led nowhere, staircases that moved to hang over voids and broken glass.” His hands trembled, “I have never looked into a mind and felt lost in it as I did in yours. It worried me and I knew- I knew I could not trust you to do what was _necessary_.”

Jarlaxle’s boots clunked against the tile shingles as he closed the gap between them. Kimmuriel flinched at the sound. It was almost worse than the accusatory glare being leveled his way. He tried to counter the feeling with anger and wound up lashing out with too much force, “Where _were_ you when your men needed leadership? Why would you abandon them when they mean _so much_ to you? You are all contradiction, Jarlaxle and I fear you are not-“

His voice caught when a pair of hands held his face and forced him to make eye contact with the mercenary instead of avoiding his gaze. He wasn’t wearing the eyepatch anymore. Out of the corner of his eye, the psionicist could see it draped around Jarlaxle’s shoulder.

Kimmuriel kept his thoughts to himself. “Put it back on,” he requested.

“You wanted entry to my thoughts so badly,” Jarlaxle countered. “Here’s your opportunity. Take it.”

“No.”

Jarlaxle repeated his order several times and was met with equally vehement rejection. “You want nothing to do with this business now that you know you can’t use it against me?” he accused, grip tightening, but hands slipping closer and closer to Kimmuriel’s throat.

The Oblodra took hold of the mercenary’s wrists, but made no move to push him away. “I have nothing to gain,” he replied.

Jarlaxle said nothing. His short nails dug into the skin of Kimmuriel’s neck.

The psionicist didn’t flinch. He could see the other’s jaw working as he ground his teeth in anger. The urge to look, just for a second, beneath the surface and see what he was planning nearly overtook him, but he resisted. Jarlaxle probably didn’t know where this was going anyway.

“How dare you,” the mercenary snarled at him. “How _dare you_ come into my home, insult my hospitality and act as if you are any nobler than I.” His eyes darted back and forth as if he were reading words scrawled across Kimmuriel’s face. “You have the _audacity_ to claim you care more about my life’s work than I do, to claim it needs _saving_ from me. You took every ounce of faith I placed in you and your judgment and turned it on me. I should kill you where you stand! You could have des-“

And then, like a candle snuffed out by a hard draft, his anger was gone. His hands relaxed, leaving burning crescents in the back of Kimmuriel’s neck. His arms relaxed, his shoulders lowered, but his hands did not leave Kimmuriel’s face. He breathed a heavy sigh into the space between them that seemed to be devoid of all things in the moments that preceded that breath.

Kimmuriel could not help himself this time. He decided to make the intrusion known to Jarlaxle with a heavy-handedness he had not grappled with since he was a boy.

_We are much too similar._ The words were laced with disbelieving laughter, coupled with images of Zaknafein Do’Urden and the matron of his house. Then, an altar Kimmuriel did not recognize. Laughter in deep darkness. A hollow, empty feeling of remorse too long steeped in the soul.

Kimmuriel released the breath he didn’t realize he was holding when he retreated back to his own mind. There was no relief to be had yet, so long as Jarlaxle was still so very close.

“You said,” Jarlaxle drawled, eyes downward to give the Oblodra some space without actually moving away, “that you saw too much. That it concerned you and made you lose confidence in me.” A slow blink and then he added, “Is that because you could not understand what you saw, or you did not like it?”

The psionicist smiled in spite of himself, “I liked it just fine.” When Jarlaxle’s eyes snapped up, he clarified, “However, you were proven to be as reckless as I’d feared and I acted in a way he would not.”

“You are not bound by the ties of sentiment,” the mercenary laughed.

Kimmuriel let his smile widen a bit before fading back to his usual passive expression.

“Do you feel no remorse for what you’ve done?” Jarlaxle asked, deadly serious. “Would you take it back if you could?”

The psionicist shook his head, a gesture made challenging by Jarlaxle’s grip on his face. “I did what I could with the information I had. If I had more, I would have acted differently. I would not have placed myself in your ill-graces.” He closed his eyes, not wanting to see Jarlaxle’s reaction, “But my security was at stake. All of this, your life’s work was at stake and you’d been so _blinded_ with sentiment as to be beyond reason. I could not convince you to let go, so force became necessary. I cannot be caught up over untaken options that never existed. It is a fool’s errand.”

Jarlaxle hands squeezed gently, not threateningly but still too close to his windpipe to be wholly benign.

“I think,” the mercenary said at length in a tone that encouraged Kimmuriel to open his eyes once more, “that we need to rewrite our terms.”

“How do you mean?”

The smug look on Jarlaxle’s face made Kimmuriel want to forget all civility and respect, root him on the spot and claw out his eyes. “I mean, you are much too invested in this for your position.”

“Am I not supposed to be?” was the curt reply, though the psionicist highly doubted he could pull himself away from the Bregan D’aerthe or its master even if the opportunity had presented itself.

A laugh, genuine and easy pulled him back. “I had never expected you to be.” Finally, Jarlaxle released his grip. It took Kimmuriel a moment longer than it should have to realize he was still holding on to his wrists and let go as well.

He could breathe freely again and did so with hidden reverence. “Your anger has stopped here?”

“Can you not see for yourself?”

Kimmuriel furrowed his brow in skepticism, but reasoned that if Jarlaxle was going to keep making passes like this, he wasn’t going to shirk them forever. A quick look showed him that embers of hurt and fury still smoldered, but the raging fire had died. The psionicist found himself burdened with a similar feeling and could barely register the change in his return.

“I wanted,” Jarlaxle was saying, though Kimmuriel had missed what he had said before this, “someone beneath me that I knew could make hard decisions. A better second than I had been. But, I think, that is not possible. Choices that difficult need to be made from a position of power.”

“Are you suggesting you start making them yourself?” Kimmuriel couldn’t stop the barb from coming through, despite the threat that remained.

The mercenary rolled his eyes, “Nonsense! I can lead men, I can write contracts, I can protect my interests from drow politics. But I am far from the perfect guildmaster. I am fallible, I am susceptible to distraction,” he trailed off with a smirk.

Kimmuriel recognized the words before that. It was the same little speech he’d given when he officially promoted him from lieutenant to second in front of the guild.  “You need eyes and ears,” he finished for him, feeling a little nostalgic for the simpler time, “keen ones. Ones that will not blink first when a matron shows her wrath. That can see all there is to be seen and more.”

“I need more than just eyes it seems.” Jarlaxle amended, “I need a second mind.”

“Are you proposing a partnership?” Kimmuriel snorted in disbelief. “With a man you nearly killed mere moments ago? That’s madness!”

Jarlaxle only laughed at the empty threat. “No. Not a full partnership. Not yet, for I still do not trust you.” Before Kimmuriel could reply he added a quick, “And that trust must be earned through deeds. But this is all we have to work with for now and I need a confidante to bounce ideas off of, not a bookkeeper resenting me from afar.”

“Why?” Kimmuriel’s backhanded mirth became sinking concern. A statement like that could only bear bad news behind it.

“Gromph’s latest letter,” He pulled the letter out of his hat as he replaced the eyepatch. An action Kimmuriel did not expect to bring him so much relief. “He reports that Quenthel’s force is in the Clawrift and they’ve been routing out the men that were still disbursed throughout the houses. There are no more of my men leaving the city as far as he can tell. It does not seem she is in the mood to take prisoners.”

This couldn’t be right. By his count there should have been at least two more groups of fifteen showing up in the next tenday. But, the letter was worded with such certainty in Gromph Baenre’s obnoxiously sure and precise hand that it left him with little room to doubt its contents. They quickly returned to the safety of the indoors once he’d finished reading.

“You did not answer my question,” Jarlaxle commented when Kimmuriel was about to leave his office. They’d spent hours picking Gromph’s letter apart and forging potential strategies.

“Which one?”

“Do you feel remorse?” Jarlaxle supplied, the seriousness of the question leaving a chill in the room.

Kimmuriel quirked an eyebrow, “What’s to stop me from lying to you?”

“It’s like you _want_ to piss me off again,” the mercenary joked.

The psionicist held up his hands defensively, “No, that’s quite alright. I’ve had enough of your wrath for one century. Perhaps at the next cataclysm.” He sobered up and tried to match Jarlaxle’s serious tone. “As much as I hate to say it, I do. Perhaps not for reasons you’d want, but I do regret that things went the way they did.”

Jarlaxle hummed thoughtfully and looked past him. For a while, Kimmuriel lingered, expecting him to speak. When he finally did, it was an uncomfortable amount of time later, “I want you to commit yourself to this. To earning back my trust, to the guild, to me, everything. If there are any reservations in your mind about my leadership or our success, I want you gone from this place. I don’t care where you go, but it cannot be here.”

Kimmuriel stared at him. He couldn’t just agree, that didn’t seem like enough. Given the gravity of his crimes he’d have to make a gesture. A new one. The realization that his betrayal of Quenthel did not matter as much as he would have hoped aggravated him for a moment, but he decided it was just easier to write that one off. This gesture needed to be simple and unambiguous.

When Jarlaxle prompted him to speak by calling his name, Kimmuriel had his reply.

“I submit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was really worried about this chapter before it went up on Tumblr. This argument has been in the works since... Heartbeat in the Dark and this was probably the most self-conscious I've been about my writing yet. But people seem to like it so I guest I was worried about nothing. XD


	11. Steady Progress

With a sigh and a roll of his eyes, Entreri drained his glass and handed it over to the waiting dwarf. The vessel was promptly set on the table with a bit too much force and an aggressive point. At the opposite side, the ranger closed his eyes in exasperation, shook his head, and moved the glass to another spot.

“We’ll lose a day that way,” Athrogate argued, pulling up a chair to stand on so he might properly reach across the table and move the glass to its original position.

“This route is safer,” Drizzt replied, his hand hovering over the glass as if to protect it. “While I agree speed is crucial, we’re of no use to the citizens of Neverwinter if we’re killed in an ambush.”

This argument had started at dinner. The whole group gathered around a table to eat and discuss a potential route to get to Neverwinter and evacuation routes once they got there. Even Effron had been dragged from his studies to offer input, not that he had much to say. Athrogate took the reins first, steering the conversation and marking points for campsites on a small travel map of the northern coast.

Drizzt stepped in at one point, disagreeing with Athrogate’s placement of the camps, and things devolved from there. The two simply could not agree. They even went so far as to commandeer the table next to theirs and construct a gigantic makeshift map of the trade roads between Silverymoon and Neverwinter; dishes, utensils, odds and ends made up different map markers, the pitchers of water and ale acted as stand-ins for the cities in question, glasses became potential campsites along the road.

“Ye’re thinkin’ there could be an ambush in a time like this?” Athrogate asked, genuine concern edging his gruff voice.

The ranger shrugged, “In times of crisis highwaymen come out of the woodwork. It’s better to err on the side of caution.”

“Are we sure the roads _are_ the side of caution?” Afafrenfere interjected, looking over the map with an odd expression. “If their lamps are lit we’ll be seen a mile off.”

“That’s why we aren’t taking the main road,” Drizzt answered, tracing the line that would have been the main route in the air above their map. “It’ll be lit up for supply carts and the like, an easy target. But the side roads,” He pointed to the trail he and Athrogate had outlined, “guards won’t waste the oil lighting most of those lamps and bandits are more likely to ignore roads that aren’t guaranteed to see even a little traffic.”

Ambergris made a thoughtful noise, “That puts us dangerously close to orc and barbarian territories, doesn’t it?”

A long silence followed.

“It does,” Drizzt admitted.

“We aren’t exactly drownin’ in options,” Athrogate sighed, “If we stay to the roads they might not bother us. Orcs didn’t touch us on the way here, we might get lucky again.”

“If we travel light,” Entreri offered, “they’ll see us as less of a target.” That earned him a round of odd looks. “What?”

“You’re coming with us?” Effron was the first to speak, “I thought-“ He looked between Drizzt and Ambergris confusedly.

The assassin laughed, only slightly offended, “You thought you were going to leave me here while you all run off to the valley of the dead and have an adventure? Hardly.” He shot a pointed look at Drizzt almost certain it was his idea. “Though I appreciate not being consulted on such a decision first,” even though he understood the reasoning behind such a mindset, Artemis couldn’t stop the venom in his voice.

The drow didn’t even blink.

“Ye sure yer up for such a journey?” Ambergris asked nudging one of the assassin’s crutches, “Sure, yer mobile, but time is of the essence.”

The human turned to her. “If I can’t keep up,” Entreri retorted flippantly, “you are more than welcome to leave me behind.” Out of the corner of his eye he saw Drizzt shift uncomfortably. The assassin turned his attention to him, “I _will_ keep up.”

The ranger didn’t look reassured, but the tension in his shoulders lessened noticeably.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Reports of undead on the surface had become so commonplace among the guards it wasn’t hard for Saribel to believe that one or two of the creatures had managed to wander down into their complex. After all the fearful retreats and the adamant entreaties of the guards, the two leaders had decided to quash the rumors of vengeful dwarf ghosts once and for all. But their first few expeditions had yielded nothing; no zombies to behead or skeletons to destroy, no ghouls clawing at the walls, or even signs of the ghosts that once wandered Gauntlgrym’s halls. Just darkness and silence.

That was bound to change sooner or later, and the head priestess was surprised to be alone when it happened.

Saribel spun on her heel when she realized the space behind her was empty. “Berellip?” She chewed the inside of her lip scanning the tunnels around her, “Berellip!” The other priestess had been only a step behind her. Where could she have gone? She couldn’t have been far; there was no way her sister could be so foolish. Saribel started to retrace her steps, intermittently calling for her sister and growing more and more angry with each attempt.

Eventually, she ended up in the throne room, the large, empty space echoing her calls back at her with frustrating clarity. This was ridiculous. She crossed to the center of the room, glaring at the out of place grave markers and the deep black bloodstains that marked the smooth stone floor. She folded her arms and tapped her foot impatiently. Perhaps Berellip had returned to the complex?

The dark elf was stopped mid-step as she stalked out of the throne room by a loud grating noise. Metal against metal and under it the _thunk_ of heavy footfalls. Saribel felt the hairs on the back of her neck start to rise. She reached for her mace.

Then, as quickly and suddenly as it had begun, the noise stopped. A thick silence filled the room, and behind it wafted in the all too familiar smell of blood, rust, and death.

Steeling her nerves, the priestess drew her weapon and turned on her heel, dropping into a battle-ready stance. There was nothing there or, at least, nothing in her immediate field of vision. She straightened, tightening her grip on her mace and took a hesitant step back into the chamber. “Show yourself,” she demanded.

The sound of clapping hands echoed across the room. Saribel tried to face the sound, but the echo disoriented her for a moment.

“My, my,” said an unfamiliar voice; grating much like the metal she’d heard earlier, but cut with something deep and unnatural. “Here I was thinkin’ I was gonna have to kill _all_ yer men before I got someone in charge to come up here.”

Saribel tightened her grip on her mace. “Who are you? How did you get here?” She put as much authority into her tired voice as she could muster. However, she knew she was too exposed, alone and with guards too far to react in time should this dwarf try anything. Well, she _thought_ it was a dwarf.

Her suspicions were confirmed a few moments later. Saribel set her jaw when the sound of clunking footsteps drew closer. A dwarf came into view. At first he didn’t seem like much, just the typical stocky ball of hair and muscle most dwarves were. Then she looked more closely.

He was holding a spiked helmet under his arm against his hip and the metal of his armor ground against it with every step, making a horrific noise. His hair was slicked back, away from his face, though his beard remained ungainly and matted. A red shine marked his eyes in the dim light of the cavern, and his bands of metal armor glistened, damp and darkened with what could only be blood, judging by the stench. The smell of death emanating from creature was enough to make Saribel’s eyes water, even from such a distance. “Who-“ Saribel started to ask.

“I’m thinkin’ it’s best if we skip introductions for now.” The creature said, smiling and showing a row of sharply pointed teeth.

“Where is my sister?” she snarled at him, gaining confidence when she saw the dwarf was alone.

“I dun think yer in a position to be askin’ questions.”

The elf bit her tongue in frustration. Out of the corner of her eye she could have sworn she saw movement, but when she turned her gaze, nothing was there. “Fine,” she conceded quietly, “tell me what you want.”

“Ah,” the dwarf sighed, “That’s more like it.” He took his time getting to her, taking a small detour to set his great, spiked helm near one of the markers on the floor. “Now, let’s be perfectly clear: I dun like ye, or yer ilk, at all. An’ I dun have time for yer petty li’l coalskin games.” He stopped a healthy distance from her, but she could see the bloodlust in his features. Whether he had kept that space between them to avoid getting into range of her mace or to temper himself, Saribel couldn’t be certain.

The priestess attempted to retain her relaxed appearance around the bubble of worry forming in the pit of her chest. She shifted her weight to her trailing foot and adjusted her grip on her mace, taking comfort in its weight in her hand. “I’m listening.”

“The dead are comin’” the dwarf said plainly. “There’s no stoppin’ ‘em this time. There’s too damn many, and they keep poppin’ out of the ground like weeds. They’ll take Neverwinter, then they’ll come for Gauntlgrym.” He gestured widely to the deep shadows around him. The blackness swirled and took shape, resembling the shifting, stocky silhouette of a dwarven army. “We’ve been doin’ what we could to protect this place. From ye, and from others. But the dead can rarely stop a necromancer, much less a whole army o’ em. We need livin’ bodies for that.”

Saribel ground her teeth and took a step back.

“Bah, calm down girlie. That’s not what I meant.” The dwarf huffed. “There’s too many o’ us fer all o’ ye anyway. What I’m proposin’ is an armistice.”

That got Saribel’s attention.

The stocky creature snorted. Her reaction had been too obvious. “Yeah, that’s right, girl. No more sabotage or killin’ yer guys, in exchange for yer cooperation in the battle to come.”

“And if I refuse?”

The look the dwarf gave her in reply reminded her of her Matron to an uncomfortable degree. “Then me and my guys kill ye and yer guys, we cave in the entrance, an’ call it a wash fer the next century or so. We’re dead, we’ve got the time.” He stomped a booted foot and the shadowy wall parted behind him. In the pause, Saribel heard her sister’s voice cursing in frustration echoing off the tunnel walls. It was muffled when the shadow’s reformed, “We’ve also got yer sister. I know ye coalskins ain’t ones for sentiment, but the more cowardly of yer men might break ranks if someone important ends up a mess o’ meat on their doorstep.” He laughed heartily as if he’d told the funniest joke of his life, only to stop with jarring abruptness and watch her closely.

The priestess mulled it over. An alliance with the Gauntlgrym dead, no matter how temporary, could prove to her advantage in the long run. This one seemed solid enough to even do spy work on the army forming in the wood topside. “What’s to stop you from betraying us when the necromancers come?” she asked, “You cannot guarantee that the strong-willed Thayans can’t control you.”

“No, I can’t.” The warrior confessed, “Though I will say that we’re a difficult lot to break, that don’t mean we’re indomitable.” He held out his hands, even the palms of his gauntlets had dark, flaking stains on them. “However, ye cooperate and it may never come to that.”

“How do you mean?”

A tiny, almost imperceptible, smirk pulled at the corner of the dwarf’s mouth. If the edge of his shaggy, matted beard hadn’t moved Saribel would have missed it. “Have we reached a deal then?”

“I won’t agree to something unless I know the terms-“

“Ye still think ye have room to bargain? Honestly?” the dwarf barked at her, “I dun see a whole lot o’ options for ye. Agree to my terms, get out o’ this stronghold, or die. Those terms seem pretty damn clear to me.”

The priestess tensed up at the sudden noise. She wanted to argue, to bark back, but the number of men this creature had killed, whose blood still stained his armor, gave her pause. This dwarf might make good on his threat to kill her men. Or sabotage them into fleeing, she noted, “I have a question.”

“Eh?”

“My driders. Was that you?”

-0-0-0-0-0-

When Glenda thought of a castle garden, this was not what she pictured. Her mind painted a picture of lush, greens speckled with bright pops of pastel. Birds that flittered between the branches of well pruned trees; singing songs and showing off their bright colors. She imagined patterns of light and shadow marking pathways and hiding trellises from view. She wanted the sound of running water and bees buzzing in the distance, of whispered conversation and laughter; the smells of cut grass and perfumed pollen.

What she got was a bunch of dingy grey and shadows. Silence plugged her ears and she had to turn and ask Hugo what he’d said when he first commented about the state of the place. Apparently the Lord and his family hadn’t lived here for some time. In fact, when he thought about it, Hugo couldn’t recall a time they’d lived there while he was alive.

Leaves swished and crunched beneath their feet as they dropped over the wall. Scavenging animals tittered and scurried away in a little flurry of noises. Entire walkways between the two would-be burglars and the castle, that once made up a swirling maze of cobblestones, were blocked off entirely by overgrowth or broken marble that might have once resembled something like a person.

Both were surprised to see that no guards were posted in the scraggly forest that lined the south wall of the castle. One was posted at either gate connecting the garden to the building, but there were no patrols wandering about like they did the main gate.

“I don’t see a-,” Glenda whispered as she scanned the wall. “Wait.”

“You see it too?” Out of the corner of her eye she saw Hugo’s smile widen and dimple his cheeks.

A window on the second floor looked different than the others. Bright orange light from street lamps and the guards torches glinted off five of the six panes of glass. Glenda quickly looked around it for ledges or movement. “How do we get up there?”

“We’ll have to climb.” The boy said, breaking into a slow jog up to one of the crumbling fountains, then to the castle’s wall when the guards’ backs were turned from the gates. “The wall doesn’t look smooth. We should be able to find hand-holds.”

“That sounds incredibly foolish,” Glenda snorted, keeping pace with him.  “How would we get back down with all the stuff we’re supposed to get?”

“I thought all you needed was a list.” Hugo turned to face her, look harsh and threatening.

The girl didn’t look back at him. “Something this stupid? I don’t think a list will be enough to smooth it over with Guildmaster Raven.”

Hugo’s smile returned but in a more smug and knowing form. She just wanted to steal things and both of them knew it. He was content to let her. “We’ll secure an escape route first. Maybe two. Then we’ll go hunting.” He said, pointing to two other windows, one situated above a tree, the other sporting a small balcony, both dark and still. “I’m thinking those two.”

“I was never good at escapes or entrances, really.” Glenda confessed.

Hugo couldn’t help but tease her, “I noticed. Perhaps I should be the one to open doors.”

“Be my guest, better you lose a hand to trap wires than me. Frankly, I was better at,” She shot him a look over her shoulder as her hands searched the stone for a place to grab hold. “acquiring things.”

“I open, you snag, I close, we both run.” Hugo laughed, doing his own search of his section of wall, finding his first grip before she did. “I can work with this plan.”

It wasn’t much wall to scale, no bigger than the one they had to climb to get into the garden in the first place. Hugo reached the window first, reaching through the open pane for the locks and swinging it open. He sat on the windowsill and waited for Glenda to join him.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Andrzel grumbled quietly as he surveyed the cramped tunnel. If this turned out to be another dead end, he would have words for Gromph about sending him on a wild goose-chase. They might be his final words, but the weapons master’s frustration didn’t seem interested in letting him care about that. Quenthel was already growing suspicious, and had accused him more than once of being a Bregan D’aerthe spy; even going so far as to send a force into the Clawrift to, as she put it, “Route out potential traitors.”

The male heaved a sigh. What was the point? Gromph was still the lesser of two evils for now and at least this got him out of House Baenre for a while. Though why the archmage had sent him so far out of his way was beyond him.

Gromph had sent him a map. No notes, no explanations as to what was at the location marked on the small square of parchment, only the heavy implication that this thing should be dealt with as soon as possible. The map showed a cavern complex hidden under some of the rubble of a long forgotten house against the northern wall of the city. The place beyond was a sprawling complex of looping tunnels and dead-ends, and Gromph’s map didn’t go beyond the entrance, so Andrzel was left to wander, alone, in the tight space.

“The things I do,” he sighed, banging his fist against the wall of another blocked off tunnel. What even was this place? Why would-

His thoughts stopped abruptly at the whisper sound of motion behind him. Andrzel spun, drawing his weapon in the same motion, bringing it down defensively in front of him.

There was a small group of women standing behind him. All slight, none of them could have been more than a couple centuries old, the youngest seemed no older than fifty. They were dressed in dark, uniform armor, hair concealed under tight scarves instead of the usual _pwifwi_ hoods and their faces were all concealed by sheer, black veils. None of them had visible weapons.

Andrzel blinked at them a few times, then stood a little straighter. “I suspect you’re the ones Gromph sent me to meet.”

“You must be Andrzel.” One of them said. But he couldn’t for the life of him discern which.

He was sent to the archmage’s tower immediately after his short meeting with the mysterious group. Before Andrzel had even fully walked through the door he was asking, “Who were they?” and “Why did you send me?”

“They,” the archmage replied, returning to his seat after shutting the door behind Andrzel, “Are potentially valuable allies. Quenthel has been consolidating her force and there are rumors she’s taken on a new advisor with the intent of replacing me.”

The weapon’s master tried to look surprised at the revelation. Truth be told, that rumor had become a commonly known fact within the walls of House Baenre. The Matron Mother had even openly stated on more than one occasion that she doubted the mage’s loyalties. Gromph scowled at him for it.

“They’ve been exiled from the city since the war ended,” Gromph continued, still scowling. “Many have forgotten their existence, which could play to our advantage. Please tell me you did not botch the meeting with them.”

“Oh no,” Andrzel said, nearly choking on his own sarcasm, “they were _lovely_ women. I think one of them might be interested in me.”

Andrzel began to smell ozone and fear. He quickly switched tactics. “The meeting was civil enough,” he amended with militaristic authority common with his station. “They refused to work with you outright. The claim being that they did not want to work with the Baenres at all. Something about violations of privacy and a lack of good faith.”

The archmage made a thoughtful noise. “Could you not reach a compromise?” He asked.

The other was silent, biting his tongue when the first question that popped into his mind tried to give itself voice. Gromph had not only sent Andrzel to meet with allies on his behalf, but had expected him to negotiate with them? Successfully? “I asked,” he said slowly, still a bit off guard, “if there was anyone they might be able to work with. Anything that might change their minds that I could get them.”

“And?” the old drow prompted impatiently when Andrzel didn’t finish.

Andrzel shrugged, “They said we have nothing they want and they would accept no payment from us. Not directly. I suggested we might do business through a third party. I suggested Jarlaxle and they agreed. Albeit somewhat reluctantly.”

“Good,” Gromph sighed, waving him off, “Now, go. I have work to do, and so do you. Quenthel will want to know where you were, and I suggest coming up with a more believable lie than the last one you tried to spin for her.”

Andrzel cringed visibly. Yes, that would be a good idea. “You’re not going to tell me what we’re going to use them for?”

“Not now.” The older drow muttered, “Not until I know I can use them.”

The weapon’s master nodded, thinking the less he knew about the mysterious group of assassins or Gromph’s interest in them, the better.

-0-0-0-0-0-

The group passed through their first few planned campsites without incident. Soon, they were off the man trade roads altogether and wandering through the darkness with only the crunching of dirt beneath their boots as a sign that they hadn’t dipped into the lush forests surrounding them. Athrogate’s boar and Entreri’s nightmare carried most of their supplies. The dwarves took up the front, Afafrenfere and Drizzt at the rear. At Ambergris’s request, the group opted for torches instead of Darkness. She even forced Drizzt to hold one despite his numerous protests. She argued back with a quip about how the drow could melt into the shadows without realizing it and she’d prefer to know where he was at all times after the Gauntlgrym incident. Entreri tacked on a slightly scathing “Like a bell for a house cat” that earned a few laughs, though it was clear he was still bitter about the group’s deciding to leave him behind in Silverymoon.

However easy their travelling seemed, it was not without issue. They found themselves turned around, or at times completely lost, more than a few times only to discover it was because their compasses weren’t working properly. They lost a great deal of time getting back on track and had to skip a few camps to make up for it. On more than one occasion animals, or perhaps something more sinister wandered too close and they were forced to pick up and leave without getting any real rest. Collectively they decided to go from single guards to pairs after one incident when they investigated a noise and noticed a large, black arrow stuck fast in the trunk of a tree.

This particular camp was the first one that had allotted sleep for days, and the group was enjoying it as much as they were able. It was situated a good distance from the actual road, far enough that even those gifted with darvision struggled to see the markers in the darkness; and just outside the northern edge of Neverwinter Wood. They were in the home stretch now, and decided to take an extra few hours in the absence of undead threats. Who knew when they’d get another opportunity?

Drizzt woke with a little start at what he had thought was a nearby sound. He’d been on edge ever since they’d found that arrow and immediately tried to write it off, but an uneasy feeling in the pit of his chest wouldn’t let him. He stared up at the black, empty sky and strained his ears to listen. The fire crackled, Ambergris and Artemis snored near the small tent that protected most of their stuff, as well as the assassin himself. Leaves crunched under distant footfalls; Athrogate and Afafrenfere on patrol. Drizzt scowled at the sky and tried to will the uneasy feeling away. He hadn’t heard anything.

Then, as if to spite him, Drizzt heard the noise again; a heavy thud dangerously close to his ear. The ranger tried to turn his head toward the source of the noise, but found himself locked in place. Despite struggling and mentally screaming commands at his body to move, he was forced to stay still.

The images of what had occurred last time he’d been so paralyzed came back to him with startling clarity. He sucked in a deep breath through his nose and forced his eyes closed. Maybe it would pass on its own. Maybe if he closed his eyes he wouldn’t see it, and if he couldn’t see it, perhaps it couldn’t harm him.

Another thud, and then another. Footfalls made louder by heavy boots, getting closer and closer. And then, they just passed him by. The steps faded in the direction of the woods, the drow opened his eyes and tried his damnedest to look after the sound, but the paralysis only allowed him to see the edge of a shadow going toward a gap in the treeline. It was the wraith, he could tell. Weapons caught the light in two of its hands. Drizzt heard no outcry when it passed into the shadows. Afafrenfere and Athrogate had missed it, if they could see it at all.

Drizzt ground his teeth, wanting to shout, to stop the creature or at the very least get distract him long enough to get the others’ attention. What was it doing here? Why was it-

The undead force.

The feeling of unease in Drizzt’s chest became a cold ball of fear. If it somehow managed to lure the undead to their camp, that would be it. They only had two guards and while they were perfectly competent fighters, a large-scale ambush was beyond what they were prepared for now. The drow struggled, begging his body to respond. He had to say something, _do anything_ , no one else had seen this.

Once the wraith was fully out of his sight, Drizzt regained the ability to move. With a recklessness he would have berated anyone else for, the drow pulled on his boots, took up his bow and quiver, and silently darted after the wraith into the woods. He could explain himself to the others once the immediate danger was dealt with, he reasoned, though he knew full well it was far from sound reasoning.

The creature left no obvious tracks, so tailing him proved extremely difficult. Drizzt strained his ears and held his breath, listening for any signs of distant movement. The ranger kept plodding along the straight path he’d seen it take from the camp, taking every measure he could to stay silent in his passage. For some reason he could not place, his steps still seemed terribly loud to his ears.

A loud shuffling of leaves caught the drow’s attention. He knocked an arrow and ducked behind the largest tree nearby. He pressed himself to the rough bark, eyes locked in the general direction of the sound. The shadows moved, swirling and collecting into a single, large shape. It was drawing closer ever so slowly, veering from left to right.

Drizzt kept the tree between himself and the shadow, hoping to avoid it entirely. It was large enough to be an animal, not an undead creature, and thus not a target for him. However, when he finally moved from out of his cover, it spotted him and lunged for him. Without thinking, Drizzt raised his weapon, Taulmaril’s magic filling the tight space with a sharp white glow just before he released the bowstring.

He had been hoping to fire over the beast, letting the sudden light and noise alarm it into fleeing. But when the darkness receded, Drizzt saw his error. There was a small person astride the bear. A _child_. In the space of less than a second, and at the cost of a painful burn on his fingers, Drizzt managed to knock his fingertips into the arrow’s shaft before it flew, disrupting his own shot enough that it went harmlessly wide and short. Magical sparks shot painfully up his hand and Taulmaril fell from his grip.

The bear, taking offense to being shot at, bore down on him. Drizzt realized he didn’t have his swords or armor or anything really, and did the only thing he had option to do: he dropped to ground, hands raised defensively. He tried calling out an apology, a claim that he hadn’t meant any harm, but all that came out was a rather undignified noise. _A child_ , his mind kept screaming at him, despite the imminent threat on his life, _I almost a shot a child._

A voice commanded the creature in a gruff language and instead of claws, Drizzt only felt a warm puff of damp air against the back of his neck. Trembling, he lifted his gaze; first, he saw the angry eyes of the bear, then the concerned face of the child.

“Lost?” The child asked in heavily accented common, words warped around a pair of small, protruding tusks at the corners of his mouth.

The drow rocked back to sit on his knees and caught his shaking breath. “I’m so-“ he began, only to have his voice break to force him to start anew. “I’m sorry. I did not see you there. I did not mean to-“ With a heavy sigh, Drizzt forced his thoughts into collection. “It is not safe out here,” he said, partially to himself and partially to the boy. “The forest is-“

“Sick,” the boy said.

Drizzt’s eyes, which had been scanning the nearby area for signs of others snapped to the boy suddenly. “What?”

Seeming proud of himself for having gotten the ranger’s attention, the child said again, “Forest is sick,” in his broken common. Drizzt was surprised that so young an orc had been taught another language.

The elf, now certain the bear wouldn’t bite him, rose to his feet and slung his bow over his shoulder. “Sick or not, it is not safe here.” His voice gained strength with every word, “You should return to your family.”

The small orc boy made a face. “Forest _is_ home,” he said, sounding confused. Before Drizzt could argue with him, the child noticed his hand. “Blood?” He gestured, kicking his heals so the bear would turn and he could get closer, “Let me see. I help.”

With a skeptical face, Drizzt began to take a step back. He tilted his head, seeing the child rummage through a pack on the bear’s sturdy-looking saddle. The child pulled out a handful of herbs, most of which Drizzt thought he recognized. He offered the tiny bouquet to the elf. “Here.”

Drizzt took the herbs, more as a gesture than out of necessity. “Thank you,” he replied slowly as he retracted his arm. “Have you-“ he began to ask, but paused unsure of whether or not he should ask the boy. He shrugged and decided that it didn’t really matter either way. “Have you seen anyone in the forest? Armed and in dark clothing?”

The boy gave Drizzt a quick once-over.

“Besides me.” Drizzt clarified. He knew he should have gotten new clothing in Silverymoon instead of wearing the things the dark elves had given him, and scolded himself for forgetting. “This one had swords. Black hair.”

After thinking a moment, the boy shook his head, too-large pelt draped around his shoulders shifting with the motion.

“Drizzt!” Afafrenfere was calling for him, his voice still sounded a good distance away.

The drow turned toward the voice, looking for movement, then turned back. “Go,” he whispered harshly at the boy. “Get somewhere safe. All this noise-“ He scanned the woods, “If my friends have heard us, the dead will have also.”

The child’s mouth pulled into a thin line, punctuated on either side by his little tusks. He nodded once and kicked his legs, urging the bear back the way they’d come with a few gruff words in orcish.

Drizzt took off at a jog back in the direction of his camp. He’d only made it a few steps before motion out of the corner of his eye stopped him cold. The wraith was standing so close, just on the other side of a tree, his face obscured slightly by the shaft of a black arrow sticking out of the tree at eye-level. With one of his free hands the wraith gently ran his fingers over the fletching.

As the ranger turned to face him, the wraith started walking, staying at the edge of Drizzt’s vision, following the boy and his bear. Dim orange light obscured the creature’s form in the blackness when Drizzt was forced to shift to his normal vision.

“Drizzt-“

The drow spun around when something touched his shoulder. Afafrenfere was giving him a very worried look, moving his torch up so he could get a better look at the ranger’s face. “Drizzt, what are you doing?”

Drizzt turned back, squinting and looking for the wraith, but saw nothing. “I thought-“ the elf stammered, his head swimming for a moment. Afafrenfere shook his shoulder gently when he didn’t start back up immediately. “I thought I saw something. It was close,” he turned back to Afafrenfere, “I thought I might catch it without having to wake everyone. Turned out to only be bear anyway.”

“A bear?” Afafrenfere asked, doubt obvious in his voice. “This close to the road?” He passed by Drizzt, holding out his torch to examine the cramped area.

The ranger saw no signs that anything had been in that clearing other than himself, except the arrow in the tree beside him.

“Something fired on you?” Afafrenfere asked, gesturing to the tree.

Drizzt shook his head. In fairness, he had not seen the arrow fired.  “It was already there.”

The monk made a soft, thoughtful noise. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Drizzt replied with a little laugh. He felt a little shaken, but otherwise alright. “Really, Aff. Let’s go back. There’s nothing out here.” He gestured back toward the camp with empty hands.

In the approaching light of Afafrenfere’s torch, Drizzt did a quick search of the ground, but couldn’t spot the small collection of herbs the orc boy had given him.  He looked at his hands, two of his fingers still had a wide, bright red mark on them, but for some reason they didn’t hurt anymore. Even when he clenched his fist or poked the surrounding skin with his thumbnail, there was no extra pain. As if the mark had simply been painted on his fingers.

“If I recall correctly,” Afafrenfere was scolding him when Drizzt finally resumed paying attention, “It was you and Athrogate that were arguing about ambushes and the dangers of straying guards back in Silverymoon. What were you thinking running off by yourself? You could have been killed.”

“I know, Aff,” Drizzt huffed guiltily. “Old habits are hard to break.”

The human made a little understanding noise. “I know. Just be glad Effron and I were the only ones that noticed this time. Try to get a handle on your lone wolf mentality.” He turned to face the ranger at the edge of the camp and lowered his voice, “I-“ he started, “I won’t tell anyone. _This_ time. You pull another stunt like this and I can’t take your word on what you were doing anymore, okay?”

Drizzt chewed the inside of his cheek. “I- thank you. I greatly appreciate it. No point in worrying everyone over nothing this time.”

Afafrenfere nodded, nudging Drizzt back into the camp with his elbow before returning to his patrol.

When the ranger collapsed onto his bedroll, Effron rose from his own to settle on the one nearer to Drizzt. “So, what did you tell him?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Drizzt replied, unlacing his boots.

“Why’d you wander off?” Effron clarified.

“I thought I saw something-“ he tried to defend himself, but Effron saw right through him.

The warlock scowled and dropped his voice to a low whisper. “You _thought_ you saw something?” he snorted, “If one _thinks_ they see something they tell other people and go investigate. You _saw_ something and it caused you enough fear to chase after it. What did you see?”

“It was a shadow.” The defensiveness in Drizzt’s voice rose. “It turned out to be nothing. A bear.”

Effron wouldn’t budge. “If you keep lying to me, Drizzt, I’ll have no choice but to wake the others.” He threatened. “You’re a ranger. The shadow of an animal would not cause you such alarm. _What_ _did you see?_ Draygo has agents all over this forest. If you so much as _think_ you saw one, it is cause for alarm.”

Drizzt tensed, but saw the reasoning behind Effron’s questions. He wasn’t scolding the ranger, he was just genuinely concerned for all of their safety. “It wasn’t one of Thay’s minions, or Draygo’s,” Drizzt said, hoping to quell the warlock’s anxiety just a little. “I thought-” he sighed, “I thought I saw the creature I saw in the Demonweb Pit. It was probably just a dream, and I wasn’t awake enough to realize what I was seeing. Do not alarm yourself, Effron.”

The warlock chewed his lip. “If you see it again, tell me,” he said sternly. The tiefling opened his mouth as if to say something else, but furrowed his brow, unable to find the words. He watched Drizzt closely for a moment before sighing, rising, and returning to his own bedroll.

Out of the corner of his eye, Drizzt watched him go.

-0-0-0-0-0-

“What were you doing?” She snarled, wrenching the boy off the bear and holding him up to look her in the face. “What have I told you?”

“Ma-“

The orc bared her teeth at her son, “You could have been hurt! You could have been _killed_.”

“It was a-“

She shook him. “What must I do to make you _listen_? Must my warnings become truth before you heed them? Those people are _dangerous_ , Faol! The forest is _filled_ with dangers. I cannot protect you from them if you continue to wander off!”

“I’m sorry, mama.”

His mother sighed and lowered him back to the ground, kneeling to keep eye contact. “You are your father’s son.” She shook her head. “It is not your place to aid these people. Survive long enough until you no longer need my protection, then you can help whoever you want. But until then, you _must_ obey my orders, pup.”

The boy nodded.

“You are not to leave my sight again unless I tell you to run,” she ordered, “Do you understand me?”

“Yes’m.”

The orc cast a wary look over her shoulder. It did not sound like anyone was coming after them. Perhaps the drow had chosen to stay silent to his companions. Or perhaps he was planning something. She replaced the boy on the back of her bear and moved swiftly; collecting her arrow from the tree and making a note to make more, putting as much distance between herself and the drow’s camp as she could in a short time.

When they finally stopped, Faol had fallen asleep. At least now he wouldn’t protest. Quietly and with great care she pulled a wrinkled map from one of the pouches on her belt. This wasn’t an idea route, but it was the fastest. She picked at her teeth with her free hand until she tasted iron. They might not take him, she worried, and if they didn’t-

She folded the map resolutely. If they didn’t, she would find a defensible place and settle in for the long, hard, calamity. There would be no other options.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for being so patient! Real life has been getting in the way of my writing a lot lately. Plus I'm hoping to publish a book next year and that's eating up a lot of time too.
> 
> Enjoy the two new chapters!


	12. Return

Andrzel kept his eyes to the floor. Things had been going so smoothly until today. Gromph had been largely quiet, too busy working things out with his assassins to relay orders to the weapons’ master. Quenthel had been as calm as was possible for her. Everything seemed to be moving along smoothly with executions of the few men still loyal to Jarlaxle that had managed to survive this long occurring in the mornings, and raids in the streets to keep the newly-free slaves in fear and hiding at night.

But today, there were no more prisoners to execute. The raids the night before had turned up nothing. There was relative peace in the city proper for the time being, though not much could be said for the strife within the individual houses and Quenthel was growing restless.

She’d begun calling on him more and more frequently, never with much for him to do.

He lingered outside her bedchamber door, listening closely. Andrzel could have sworn he’d heard voices, or at the very least Quenthel’s voice saying something. _Thanking_ someone if he heard correctly, but there was no reply. Only the sound of distant, heavy boots.

“What are you doing?” A feminine voice hissed behind him, making him jump and pivot to face her.

Andrzel stared at the woman for a moment, trying to come up with a plausible excuse for his eavesdropping. She was dressed in simpler clothing than Andrzel would have expected of a Baenre priestess, even after Quenthel’s call to have everyone properly armored, but her hair was done up in the all-too-familiar swirling spiderweb of braids so she had to hold at least some rank within the household. She was thicker around the middle, with sharp almond shaped eyes and a deep, jagged scar on her cheek starting from her left nostril, curving under the apple of her cheek and inching up toward her wide, barely-pointed left ear.

Andrzel stopped thinking of excuses when he realized he didn’t recognize this woman. He scowled at her, but didn’t say anything about it. There were so many women in his House, there were bound to be a few he didn’t recognize and questioning their blood was a worse idea than keeping the matron waiting for so long.

The woman only arched an eyebrow at him. Andrzel expected a mocking smirk to follow, but none came. “I think the Matron is waiting for you.”

The weapons’ master looked at her curiously half a moment longer before nodding. “Yes. Excuse me.” he said, more out of habit than politeness, before knocking on Quenthel’s door and stepping into her bedchamber when she acknowledged him.

Andrzel leaned against the door after he shut it behind him, eyes scanning the room for any signs of its other occupant. His heartbeat sped when he found nothing obvious. He took several deep breaths through his nose, forcing himself to stay calm and listen.

“There was peace in the streets today,” it was more a statement than a question. “All of Jarlaxle’s men have been found.”

“Those within the city,” Andrzel nodded, when the pause dragged on and prompted him to speak.

“And those without,” Quenthel said with a sly smile. “I’ve recently found reliable information about hideouts on the surface. Three of them in fact.” She did a circuit of the room as she spoke, eventually sitting on the arm of a high backed chair to watch Andrzel’s reactions intently. “One is to the far south. The other east.”

“Calimport and Vaasa,” Andrzel bit his cheek. Everyone knew about Jarlaxle’s trade posts on the surface. But they also knew how poorly manned and guarded both places were. And they were both much too far away to be useful in such a quick and massive upheaval. “I do not know of a third.”

The look on Quenthel’s face was terrifying; had she been anyone else, Andrzel would have reached for his weapon. “It’s very close. I’ve already sent someone to confirm my information. I’ll need you to get a raid party together when that happens.”

Andrzel opened his mouth to ask her what would happen if her information proved false, but thought better of the action almost immediately. “As you command, Matron Mother.” He bowed slightly and turned to leave.

“I have not dismissed you.” Quenthel barked sharply.

The weapons’ master froze, suddenly nervous. He turned back to her without a word.

“You’ve been doing favors for Gromph,” She said. Andrzel couldn’t tell if it was an accusation. “What kinds of favors?”

“I’ve,” Andrzel considered his words carefully, “I have been helping him consolidate his power within our house, in the event the lesser houses get the mind to try and dethrone us. Have we not discussed this already?” He quickly justified his actions with a more polite. “He is the most powerful mage in the city, Matron Mother, it would be a shame to not have him on our side.”

“You did not consult me _first_ , whether we have already spoken on the subject or not that makes your actions suspicious.” now Quenthel sounded accusatory. “Things are missing now. Has he taken them?”

“I’ve been tasked to recover any and all missing or misplaced items. I still have not yet accounted for everything, perhaps the missing items will turn up.” Andrzel replied, a little stiff, but the statement wasn’t untrue and he hoped it would suffice for an answer. “You seemed to have your hands full with the mercenaries and the city. And it has always been my place to ensure the house is prepared for war at all times, I did not think you wanted to be disturbed with such things. I would have consulted you had I known otherwise.” He said the last part as passively and warm as he could manage, just like the last times Quenthel had questioned his loyalty.

Quenthel pursed her lips and studied him carefully, as though she could read his very thoughts. He wondered if she had a psionicist stashed somewhere for such a purpose. Kimmuriel may have killed her illithid, but there were plenty of dark elves in the house up for such a task. He tried not to think on it too much.

“Where do you go when you leave the grounds?”

Andrzel met her gaze, knowing anything else could immediately give away a lie. “Various places. Some for you, some for Gromph. But I have never left Menzobarrenzan and her territories. Is there a specific instance-“

“Do not play coy with me, Andrzel. I am not in the mood.” The Matron snapped at him.

“I go and speak to contacts in the city.” He said. It was as blunt and true as he could manage.

“On my behalf or Gromph’s?” Quenthel gaze felt like a weight on his shoulders now, like one wrong move could crush him or set him aflame.

“On behalf of the Baenre bloodline and the House it holds, Matron Mother.”

There was a long silence afterward. The weapons’ master was worried he needed to say something else, but words failed him then. His matron was scowling and that was enough for Andrzel to know she didn’t believe him, but she dismissed him and he left without turning his back on her.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Afafrenfere looked over his shoulder. He could barely see the other’s lights anymore; just a distant glow on the horizon. The monk took a few deep, steady breaths, finally relaxing for the first time since Ambergris had yelled at him to scout ahead. Not that he could do much, what with the cloth-like darkness that surrounded almost everything and made it next to impossible to see the hand in front of his face. He slowed his pace to a silent walk and continued on, letting his ears hunt for potential ambushes.

Their group had grown so quiet over the journey. The farther south they went, it seemed, the less they had to talk about. Or, rather, the less they were _willing_ to talk about. Everyone seemed so distracted with worry about what awaited them in Neverwinter it was almost as if they had forgotten why they’d come. That they were supposed to be heroes, not refugees.

When he opened his eyes again, Afafrenfere saw light. It was a long way off, glowing dots like orange fireflies moving in a serpentine pattern that branched off like some artist’s rendition of a dying tree. He could just barely make out the edge of the wood beyond an expanse of black where the lights ended, and the farmlands looked like they were nothing but embers from the orange lamps. Not far off lights lifted off the ground, dotting the walls surrounding the city of Neverwinter.

A day’s walk and they’d be there. The human felt his heart lift; a wall between them and the wilderness. He couldn’t remember a time he’d been so happy to see a city, even a ghost town like this one.

Afafrenfere sat at the side of the road to wait for the others to catch up. Briefly, he considered another round of meditation, but for some reason it was helping less lately. Not that it had helped all that much before.

_Let it wash over you and wipe the slate clean_.

Curious, Afafrenfere took a meditative posture, crossing his legs and folding his hands in his lap the way his trainers had shown him.  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath through his nose; it straightened his back and filled his chest with stale, warm air and he held it. His brow furrowed in concentration. Something, barely there, but still something felt different. A spinning feeling, as if his held air was moving in a whirlpool around his heart; Afafrenfere tried to place it, but his head start to grow light. He released the breath slowly and repeated the process a few times, but felt nothing. No swirling energy, no clean slates, nothing each time. The last breath came out in a huff and he stopped trying.

The monk shook his head. _Garbage._ He reminded himself. Sure breathing and quiet served their purposes, but there was nothing magical about them. Not the way the monks seemed to want him to believe. He twisted in place and heard a _pop_ from his back, then the same with his neck. The failed exercise did make him wonder though; maybe there _was_ something magic in those breaths, but he simply wasn’t magic enough to understand it. Effron and Ambergris did breathing exercises when they practiced their magic, after all.

His musings were cut short by the sounds of the others approaching.

Afafrenfere turned, he could just barely see them; black shadows with a corona of yellow light winding its way through the darkness. He could make out Ambergris and Athrogate’s stocky shapes on either side of the main group. The hellboar and the nightmare laden with their travel gear on one side, Effron’s distinct shape on the other with Drizzt and Artemis hidden somewhere in the mass of muddle color and blackness. He heard no voices.

As they approached, Afafrenfere realized he had strayed far enough from the main road that they might pass him by without noticing. A sly smirk pulled at his mouth and he decided to watch them as they passed. He missed all the people watching cities had provided, and whenever he watched the group for too long they grew restless. He picked out a spot, hidden behind some of the trees at the edge of the wood, soft underbrush causing his boots to sink a bit, held his breath and looked.

Athrogate was stone faced as always, and passed first. The front of the pack was his place and everyone knew it. Ambergris came a bit after him, just behind the hellboar carrying the tents and the dwarves’ packs. Afafrenfere’s heart sank a little at the sight of her. She seemed distressed, a deep furrow in her brow and a sadness in her eyes, the corner of her bottom lip pulled between her teeth. The expression exacerbated by the torch in her hand. He made a note to hug her once they got a room in town.

Next came Artemis, a hand on his steed, since the uneven ground wasn’t good for crutches. He’d broken one twice already and Ambergris had forsaken fixing it. He appeared to be doing better, not wincing with every few steps and his reliance on the nightmare seemed to be more of a safety precaution than a necessity now. His eyes were dark, focused on his own thoughts more than the world around him.

Drizzt and Effron took up the rear. The ranger tasked with holding the other light source and watching the edge of the forest for threats. Both men’s eyes darted about the road; Effron’s ahead as if he expected to see something awful on the horizon, Drizzt’s on the forest like something was in there, stalking him. Afafrenfere figured he must have felt less safe after dismissing Guenhwyvar for the day, but the way he seemed to linger at the edge of the group challenged that. Occasionally Effron would notice that lingering and slow his pace until he and Drizzt were shoulder to shoulder, but if the drow noticed he made no sign.

The monk leaned against his tree once they passed him. He’d thought they were better off than this, but the look of his friends made his heart feel so much heavier. _No one_ was well. Afafrenfere lowered his gaze and took a deep breath. Something would need to be done once they got to town; they couldn’t help anyone like this.

He broke into an easy jog, hugging the side of the road and weaving through the trees to pull out ahead of the group once more. The shadows felt colder now, more ominous. Afafrenfere tried not to think on it too long.

He came out of the woods a short way in front of them and gave his estimates about how long it would take to reach the city. Athrogate and Artemis nodded in acknowledgment, Ambergris gave him a little smile and a word of thanks for the effort. Effron and Drizzt didn’t seem to notice he’d rejoined the group as they plodded along the road toward safety.

The city itself was even emptier than it had been when they’d arrived during the earthquakes. The gates guarded by two sentries armed with crossbows stood mostly closed and it took several minutes for one to come down and confirm who they were and let them in. Streets and market stalls stood empty, their only residents spiders and birds. Many windows were broken and doors ajar with wood splintered from forced entry. Only the main road sported lit lamps and the side streets rejected the light like the gaping maws of deep caverns.

This wasn’t a ghost town, Afafrenfere realized as a sadness crept into his mind, it was still dying.

Even the inn was a shambles compared to when they’d last stayed in Neverwinter. Most items of value were missing, and many rooms were empty. The innkeep laughed when Athrogate asked him how much a few rooms would cost. Apparently money was no good in this place anymore.

Afafrenfere sat on Ambergris’s bed, waiting for the dwarf after he and Artemis moved all their packs to their rooms. Drizzt, Athrogate, and the cleric spent that time trying to pry information out of the people that gathered in the tavern for company and peace of mind. The monk wasn’t sure where Effron had gone, but was sure he was still around somewhere.

Ambergris started when she saw him, but didn’t tell him to leave.

“Amber, can I ask you a question?” The human said as quietly as he could without whispering. He wasn’t sure why.

The dwarf hopped up on the bed beside him. “What-“

“Effron said a while back that- That he thought the world was ending.” He said. It felt like there was a heavy stone in his stomach. “Looking at this place I can’t- I can’t help but think he was right. He sounded so frightened and now I see why.”

“Aff-“ Ambergris started, but stopped short not knowing what to say.

“Should we share that fear, Ambergris? Is this the end?” He twisted at the waist to look out the window, “Will other cities wind up like Neverwinter?”

Ambergris looked outside with him. “Once upon a time this place was the jewel of the north,” she said sadly.

“Now look at it.” Afafrenfere sighed.

“It isn’t the end,” Ambergris said after a long moment, her voice strong and certain. “It can’t be. We’ve been through too much for the world to just up and end on us now. There has to be more. I’m sure of it.”

Afafrenfere smiled, “I thought so. Thank you, Amber.”

The dwarf snorted and waved him off, “Bah. If only yer crisis was the worst o’ my problems.” She smiled back at him.

Without waiting for a prompt, Afafrenfere leaned over and pulled his friend into a hug. She nearly squeezed the air out of him returning it.

-0-0-0-0-0-

“Have you heard _anything?_ ” Tiago asked, not sounding overly concerned. Both of them knew he hadn’t wanted to make such inquiries, perfectly content as he was to let the children get arrested or worse. If they wanted to be stupid, he’d said when Dahlia had first given him the order to look into things, let them suffer the consequences of such stupidity.

And yet, here he was checking up with Talim for the third time.

The human shook her head, wooden beads in her hair clicking softly with the motion. “Wherever they are, it isn’t the prisons.”

“Perhaps they’d been killed on sight.” Tiago mused, biting back a laugh at the brief flash of horror that took over the woman’s features. Oh, humans.

Dahlia was not so amused. “I would certainly hope not,” she said sharply, causing the girl to jump in surprise. She never managed to get Tiago with such sneaking tactics. He’d claimed it was because such were the same tricks high priestesses used. Dahlia was convinced he just saw or heard her coming every time. Not that it really mattered which.

“Oh?” Tiago arched a brow.

She wanted to punch him.

The young woman, now trapped between them, started to scoot away. “Guildmaster,” She laughed nervously, “I wasn’t expecting you back-“

“We have a problem,” Dahlia continued, ignoring the other woman.

Tiago’s interest was totally hers. “What manner of problem?”

Before she could answer, the rear door to the guildhouse swung open with a loud bang. Two dark haired children, one girl and one boy, in ill-fitting, poorly kept clothing stood on the other side. The boy stood closer to the door, a still-bloody dagger in his hand and the black stain of blood seeped into the dark fabric of his shirt. The girl held up a cloth bag that clinked when she moved it and a sheet of parchment with smudged and hasty writing on it. A line of red stood out on the fabric of her skirt, a few bright drops blended in with the freckles of her face.

“We found the store,” Glenda said, breathless and triumphant.

The three adults looked at them in stunned silence. Dahlia was the first to recover, calling for the only member absent from the current meeting and taking the bag and list from the girl. There wasn’t much in it; two spherical bottles of maroon liquid wrapped loosely in fabric, a few bundles of herbs, and a small canister of salt. The list was barely legible, but comprehensive; names of items accompanied with quick descriptions of their storage and tally marks denoting amounts.

When Sasani arrived she was handed the list. The mage narrowed her eyes at it suspiciously. “This was _it?_ ”

“It was all we managed to find,” the boy answered, sounding more than a little offended. “The castle is huge, there might have been others. We just didn’t have time to find them all.”

The three women looked at each other. Two of them cast glances at Tiago, but he was too busy examining the children to return any of those looks. “How many _did_ you find?” he asked, focusing on the child that answered.

“Two,” Glenda answered. “Both of them food stores.”

Dahlia reached into the bag and pulled out one of the bottles and popped the cork with her teeth. She smelled the familiar pungent acidity of a healing potion, but it was diluted. “Well,” she sighed, replacing the cork, “At least it wasn’t completely fruitless. The potions are real.”

A short silence followed as Sasani made a note of potential potions in other storerooms on Glenda’s list.

“Who saw you?” Talim asked, when the attention returned to the children. “Is he dead?”

“Eventually,” Hugo said with a shrug to look casual, the tremor in his voice gave him away.

Glenda turned to him, looking sympathetic. Whatever had happened had shaken them both. “I-“ she sighed, “I wanted to look for a third room. Find the rest of the potion stash.” She turned back to Dahlia, “He suggested we leave with what we had and avoid being caught, but I wouldn’t listen.

“We were caught on the way out by an off duty guard. He chased us through our escape route. We couldn’t lose him. He caught me by the arm when we were halfway out.” The girl wrung the stained fabric of her skirt in her bloodied hands leaving smudges and wrinkles in their wake. “I thought he was going to leave me there. The goods were already outside, all I had was a list. But,” she perked up a little, “he came back for me. Stabbed the guy right in the leg until he let me go. Then we bolted. I don’t think anyone saw where we went.”

Tiago wasn’t sure if the others saw it, but for a second the boy looked at Glenda wide-eyed, surprised by what she’d told them. The drow couldn’t help but smirk. Why was would she lie?

Dahlia and the other women didn’t question it, but didn’t reward the boy either. “Let’s hope,” Dahlia scolded, “the guards don’t show up on my doorstep anytime soon.”

The two children nodded obediently.

The guildmaster issued her orders then. Glenda was to go upstairs to change then immediately report back. Sasani was charged to make a more comprehensive and legible list of the guards potential stores by order of usefulness. Talim to keep tabs on the guards and find any trail the children may have left and deal with both appropriately. Tiago to take Hugo and brief him on the standing rules and expectations of the guild. That last order was issued with a long and weighty look. She’d be asking him questions later.

At a snap of her fingers, the group split up to their assigned tasks. Once alone, Tiago placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“What’s your name?” He asked.

The child looked at him, understandably wary of the strange man. “Hugo,” he answered.

“Tiago,” the drow said with a nod, “Now that introductions are out of the way, I’m going to need you to tell me what really happened.”

“I don’t-“

He stopped the boy with a painful squeeze to the space where his neck met his shoulder. “Kid, I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt and say you don’t know a whole lot about my people. Let me give you a short lesson: there are many superstitious races on and in this world that would believe the drow _invented_ lying. We’re very good at it. So don’t think you’re going to pull fast one on me. I don’t like kids and I don’t have the patience for their egos.”

The muscles in the boy’s neck tensed. He swallowed hard.

“What really happened, and why did she lie for you?”

Hugo told him everything. How Glenda had demanded to find a third storeroom and how he’d had to physically drag her down the escape route and that was how they’d been spotted by an off-duty guard. The two of them had split up, trying to throw him off the trail. They met up where they’d entered thinking that the guards had lost them, wrapped up the glass bottles, and tossed the bag from the window.

Glenda had been meant to go out the window first, but now there were two guards kicking the door in. They knocked the thing right of its hinges. Hugo had been the one to get grabbed, Glenda took the knife from his belt while he struggled to get free and stabbed the guard. Hugo had pulled the blade out of the guard’s leg. The other of the two stopped pursuing them, more inclined to help his friend than chase the two burglars that had taken hardly anything as far as they knew.

Tiago listened to the whole story with a passive expression.

“I hadn’t meant to get anyone injured,” Hugo concluded, voice trembling but emotions kept tentatively in check. “The guards were never supposed to see us.”

The drow asked him a few questions. How did they get in? How did they originally plan to get out? What traps or locks were placed on the storeroom doors or other entrances? He even prompted him for details.

Hugo answered every question competently.

Oh yes, Tiago couldn’t stop the smirk twisting his mouth as they started walking again. This one would prove very useful.


	13. Ear to the Ground

The guards had grown skittish. Valas could tell as much even from so great a distance. Whether that fear was inspired by the ever-present threat of undead at their border, or the remembered threat of the drow beneath them, the scout was less certain. He wasn’t about to take chances either way.

He debated ways to get into Neverwinter from his perch against a farmhouse chimney. Drizzt and his company had been within the walls for quite some time. Days even. They would surely be settled in by now. And people of renown such as theirs were never too hard to find, even if the direct trail had been cold for days.

What concerned Valas more than the whereabouts of his mark, was the dead inching slowly to the boarder. He’d spotted a few skeletons and other shamblers on the edge of the wood as he was looking for his current post. Wildlife had seeped into the farmland, fearful of the terrible magic polluting their habitats. A blessing and a curse for the city it seemed; game was easy to come by now, but it wasn’t a good omen of things to come. Those dead would be moving out soon, and Valas didn’t want to stick around long enough to find out just how numerous they truly were.

But, if Drizzt stayed, the scout would have to watch him. Valas sat with his chin in his hands and considered confronting the ranger, trying to convince him to leave. He scrapped the idea quickly; the only mercenary Drizzt listened to was Jarlaxle, and even then it wasn’t a consistent listening.

The scout found his opportunity to get through the gate in a group of hunters out to poach the frightened animals hiding amongst the farmhouses and empty barns the far edge of Neverwinter’s territory. At first, their bows and rangering gear made him worry that Drizzt might have been among them. But, no, much to Valas’s suspicion these were simple farmhands. Desperate men willing to sacrifice their lives for another chance to eat a proper meal. Something must be wrong if a good-hearted person of Drizzt’s skill was willing to let the inexperienced go it alone and the idea left Valas’s with a cold feeling. If something had happened to Drizzt while he let up his watch, Jarlaxle would have more than a few harsh words for him.

If he had any words at all, Valas realized as he climbed down from the rooftop to close in on the group. He hadn’t gotten word back from his last two missives, though, he supposed, that could have been the fault of the couriers. Or, less likely, Jarlaxle and Kimmuriel had finally killed each other. He wondered a moment what Kimmuriel’s unchallenged rule of the mercenary band would be like, if the men no longer possessed debts to keep the cowards loyal or respect to keep the brave around. He had to swallow his laughter, lest he give away his position.

It wasn’t difficult to find someone in this rag-tag group that was roughly his size. A slender half-elf female that looked like she was better equipped for cooking the game than hunting it down. It took even less effort to kill her and take enough of her gear to blend in with the caravan as it returned to the city. His cowl pulled low to cover his hair and face, a rabbit slung over his shoulder to stop the guards from asking too many questions, and he was let in without resistance.

Once through the gate, Valas elected to hold on to the would-be ranger’s gear. He was, however, forced to return the bow which apparently had been a loan from the city guard. But the trapping supplies and cloak remained his to keep.

At the table where the guards were inspecting the weapons for damage and herding the group through the limited defenses beyond the main gate, Valas spotted someone out of the corner of his eye. He could have sworn it was one of Do’Urden’s people. The tall, horned mage-type fellow and he was speaking to one of the guards, gesturing to the fields outside too far away for the scout to actually hear either of them. _Effron_ , the name came to Valas once he was free of the throng, a second too late. When he returned to a proper eavesdropping position, the warlock was already gone.

Not that it mattered. He had another target to search for anyway.

Valas wandered, no entirely aimless, for a short while. He leaned into the uneven lay of the cobblestones, weaving between puddles of light left by the lamps to counteract the blackness that had settled like ink stains in the backstreets and abandoned homes. The drow found himself eerily reminded of the markets of Menzoberranzan before they opened, only this place had replaced the danger with bleak hopelessness. Valas wasn’t sure which was worse.

As he moved, he listened, particularly when he passed a group of people huddled around a streetlight or in an open doorway. Shards of gossip and grievances littered this place, but there was considerably less to be heard about Do’Urden and his merry band of almost-heroes than he would have hoped. Instead it all seemed to be about rumors of strange weather, the horde coming to eat them, or someone called The Raven.

Eventually, he stumbled upon a familiar pair of voices. Two of Drizzt’s troupe: Athrogate and the blond human, wandering between houses, talking and pointing with a pair of men dressed in the chainmail of the city guard. This seemed as good a place to start as any.

Valas backtracked at a quick jog to a neighboring street, sticking to the shadows and relying on his hearing until the voices were suitably close.  A foot on a windowsill and well placed knife in a beam and he was on the roof, crouching just outside of the guard’s torchlight. It never ceased to amaze him how infrequently humans looked up when checking their surroundings. Always down, never up. Perhaps a side-effect of having no ceilings where creatures can lurk, an unsafe practice regardless.

After several long moments of listening to the dwarf speak, Valas furrowed his brow. Who was this dwarf? He hadn’t encountered Athrogate too much, usually only dealing with Jarlaxle or, rather, Jarlaxle through the conduit of Kimmuriel, but what he had seen was nothing like this. The dwarf back then was battle hungry, frothing for a fight, a veritable battering ram of a creature. But this was not that dwarf. This one was cleaner cut, if still a little scraggly at the edges, straighter backed planning a strategic _retreat_ of all things, if Valas understood his words correctly. A systematic destruction and burning of houses, bottlenecks and barricades. The humans nodded along in agreement, the unarmored human at the dwarf’s shoulder offering to help loot the places of valuables and furniture ahead of time.

“When we weather the first onslaught,” he reasoned when the guards gave him wary looks. “We’ll need the metal for weapons. After the sun returns the valuables may slowly become worth something again. You can slowly rebuild your city.”

Athrogate nodded along, looking a little dubious about the last part but trying to smile anyway. Valas could sense the dishonesty in the man’s words even from the rooftop. _Not when_ , his thoughts corrected, cynical, _if._ The dwarf shared the notion, judging by the look on his face.

But, the guards were bolstered by his words and no one argued with the assertion of their survival. Not now, at least. Valas tailed them for a while, crossing the rooftop, dropping down then listening between the buildings, but none of it was interesting or pertaining to his target. Athrogate barely even mentioned the others in his group outside of the cleric. A note that troubled the scout. He slowed to a stop, allowed them to pass him, and turned around.

That was when he spotted her, across the dark road, crouched low between two houses. Valas was only slightly impressed that he hadn’t seen her sooner, but then he caught the motion in her braids, beaded ends making them swing freely and tug at her drawn hood showing she’d only recently stopped moving. Her dark skin and clothing blended in well with her surroundings. She didn’t notice him.

_Another spy?_ Valas wondered, turning back to the main road. _Curious_.

-0-0-0-0-0-

He stumbled upon the cleric in the city square. The scout nearly missed her the first time; her short stature blotted out by the taller, bulkier humans that had collected around her in a loose circle. It was only when he heard her voice, accent-laden and booming, that Valas slowed his pace and looked for a place to observe her speech.  
  
The crowd of faces around her, the drow noted when he found a comfortable perch near the city's gallows, we're not warm ones. Brows furrowed in worry or agitation. Mouths were drawn in thin, tight lines. Women toyed with the hems of their clothing. Men stood straight backed, arms folded and defensive. The few children that were there peeked out from windows or around their mothers' skirts, curious but afraid.  
  
That didn't stop the dwarf that stood among them. "Are ye just gonna stand here an' cower?" She asked them. "Ye didn't give up when the earth was tremblin'. Or when the sun went dark. Why are ye so eager to do so now?"  
  
There was a pause, a tense, almost offended silence, before voices rose in argument. "We could not leave," several said. "It wasn't a choice," were the others. Many simply grumbled in agreement with the dissenters and others still remained silent, sullen and lifeless in their stares.  
  
Valas arched his brow, wondering how the cleric might get herself out of her failing rally. Where was that holy charisma now? As the silence dragged on, Valas wondered how a priestess might handle this situation. He almost laughed.  
  
"Fine," the dwarf conceded, holding up her hands defensively. "Ye didn't have a choice in stayin' or leavin' but that still doesn't mean he should lay down an' die, does it?" She looked around at the group expectantly, but received no reply. "Ye're tellin' me," she continued, rounding on the group, tone accusatory, "that those lords that up and ran get to decide whether ye live or die. Because they didn't want to take ye with them? That means ye're life is worthless?"  
  
The group murmured among themselves, their ire dying somewhat. Many were starting to agree with her.

Valas listened closely and heard these people compare the cleric to another person. A female, an elf, but no more details were coming.

“But it wasn’t just the lords that left us,” a woman’s voice rose over the crowd. Faces turned toward a middle-aged woman with a teenager at her elbow. “The gods have abandoned us too. They took the sun with them and condemned us. You dress the part of a cleric, surely you feel their absences as well as any of us.”

More murmuring and everyone turned back to the dwarf to hear her response. Valas had to admit, it was the best argument they’d thrown at her. He was just as interested to hear her reply, but for different reasons.

Her bluster fell away. Her shoulders feel and she stilled at the center of the circle the people of Neverwinter had made for her. She was quiet for a very long time. So long that some people turned and left. Valas could not see her face, but read pain and uncertainty in her body language.

“Yer gods have not condemned ye,” the dwarf replied, looking the woman directly in the face. “I know it- it’s feelin’ that way, but they haven’t. Yes,” her voice grew in volume, “they have left us, but it was for abandon’. They want the world back the way it was. Before the dead could saunter up to yer door an’ kick it in. They’re doin’ that for us and they’re trustin’ us to survive while they’re gone.”

“You don’t know that,” a voice shouted.

“Bah!” She snorted, spitting on the ground, “I’m a cleric! Ye don’t think my god gave me a little warnin’ before he up an vanished?”

Valas smirked, _No, I don’t think he did._

But the townspeople didn’t argue. If anything, they seemed comforted.

“Our gods,” she addressed the group as a whole, “Have left us in the good faith that we’ll still be here when they come back. That we can weather this storm without them holdin’ our hands. If our gods believe that the living should be able to conquer the dead, who are we to tell ‘em they’re wrong, eh?”

The crowd was hesitant.

But the dwarf did not relent; shouting and raising the call to arms. Eventually, others were shouting with her. Determined battle cries rang out across the square, raised fists casting long, black shadows in the lamplight. Soon everyone, even the doubtful were chanting in unison against the dead.

Valas clapped in time with their chanting.

When the fervor died down and the crowd dissipated, the scout lingered. He kept to the shadows, hood low, making it look like he was just trying to get through the throng. His hearing picked up a couple of young people asking the dwarf if she was affiliated with The Raven –that name again- and they were answered with a confused noise and a “no.”

Another thing that caught his attention was the two children hiding under the gallows. A boy in second hand armor padding and a girl in a dress at least one size too large. He’d seen them before, but would not have paid them any mind had they not attempted to pickpocket an older man on Valas’s trip back out of the crowd. The man’s shouts of “Thieves” caught the attention of only a few, and died down when he realized nothing had actually been stolen.

But why would those kids wait until the speech was over to steal things when they could have snatched things while people were distracted.

_More spies_? Valas wondered as he tailed the fleeing kids for a few streets.  _Perhaps they work with this Raven character?_ He decided to look into it once he’d tracked Drizzt down.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Do’Urden was with his panther wandering in an abandoned part of town. Valas could hear his voice echoing off the walls, but could only pick out a few words in that echo. Mostly ‘concern’ and ‘know’ and none of them held any confidence.

The scout pursued him across the rooftops, silently jumping from one building to the next when necessary. The panther’s ears perked up more than once and Valas was forced to slow down and hide lest she spot him. Quietly Valas thanked whatever god usually responsible for wind for being absent so he didn’t have to worry too much about the massive cat’s sense of smell.

He could do without the humidity and stagnant air, however. He’d seen enough of that in the Underdark. At least it wasn’t more glass rain or thin air.

Drizzt and his beast stopped at a particularly wide dead-end road a great enough distance from the lighted main street that Valas had to slip into his darkvision to see them both.

The ranger stood at one end and ordered the panther to go to the other and sit. The cat complied with a soft growl. For a long time, Drizzt just watched the cat. Nothing happened. The drow tilted his head from side to side. Still nothing and eventually the cat mimicked his movements.

Then, Drizzt fell into a stance and Valas knew exactly was happening and how awful it was. It was a familiar stance. One a lot of young people took when first learning how to use their innate abilities of darkness and faerie fire. And still, nothing was happening.

Drizzt finally gave up with a loud, frustrated growl and a string of swears. He ran his hands through his long, white hair and paced in a small circle. “What is going _on_?” He shouted. “Why can’t I do this anymore.” He stopped his movements and tried again but to no avail.

“Why can’t I remember how to do this? It used to be so easy.”

Valas couldn’t resist the urge to look away at that. Quickly scanning the area to see if anyone had heard the elf’s shouting and would come running and possibly spot him on his perch. The only face he saw in the neighboring shadows was that of Artemis Entreri. From the other side of the street, Valas could see the look of concern on the assassin’s face.

Ultimately, Drizzt stopped making attempts all together. Valas watched his panther approach him and nuzzle his side. Even she was worried about him, it seemed. Things must have gotten worse while the scout wasn’t looking.

Valas’s worried frown only deepened when Drizzt tried a variety of other things. Things dark elf nobles learned at the academy. Things most dark elves knew. And each one was a struggle. Even when he swore in his native tongue, his accent sounded off, as if wasn’t his native tongue anymore.

The scout wondered how he would word this into his missive to Jarlaxle. _It’s like he’s not even a drow anymore. I’ve never seen something so bizarre. You should come see._

Drizzt struggled with his practicing for what Valas could only assume was the better part of an hour if his internal clock could still be trusted. After that, he dismissed the panther, who went reluctantly, and sat against an unlit lamppost, his head in his hands. He was collecting himself now, preparing to return to the group.

Entreri had other ideas and approached him. “Drizzt?” he asked, voice soft, not wanting to startle the elf. “Are you well?”

“I’m fine,” Do’Urden replied, his voice sharper than it had any reason to be. “I just- I need some rest is all.”

“We should go back then.”

Drizzt nodded in agreement, but denied the human’s outstretched hand, rising on his own and sweeping past him. Artemis fell into step at his side.

Valas followed. They never got any closer to each other, as if they were walking on opposite sides of an invisible wall. Drizzt kept his eyes straight ahead. Artemis looked anywhere but at Drizzt until he had to say something to make sure the elf stayed on the right path. Drizzt missed a few street, but Valas wasn’t sure if that was because if he was too deep in his own thoughts, or if he’d forgotten the way.

The mercenary slipped into the inn a little after the pair, and found their table. He kept his hood low and his stolen rangering gear obvious as he took a seat and strained his hearing to listen.

The dwarves were leading the conversation, claiming to have only come back for a meal and for updates. Artemis informed them of what trap making supplies he had. The cleric replied by telling him to get a decent night’s sleep, since he might need all his focus to set up as many traps as he could upon waking. Artemis nodded his agreement. The conversation when all around the table, dwarves asking what other things would be useful; if Drizzt could set up diversions and snares while Artemis rigged deadlier things. Afafrenfere agreed to linger and recruit Effron to gather supplies when the warlock got in.

All the while, Drizzt barely said a word.

-0-0-0-0-0-

One member of the group was still missing, Valas noted once Drizzt and Entreri had reunited with the rest of their friends. The warlock. Curious, and now certain the man he had spotted earlier was the missing tiefling, Valas headed back to the city gate to try and find a lead.

No one was there aside from the usual guards. At least not on the main road. The rangering supplies and catches for the day had been collected and taken off somewhere. He leaned against a house, just inside its shadow. He picked at the scars on his hands, or rather, where his scars should have been.

He still wasn’t used to the new placement, it seemed.

“Raven?”

Valas started at the name, spoken in a soft, lyrical voice. He pushed off from the wall looking for the source. They took the form of two women, one sitting on the edge of the roof of a building, the other standing on a windowsill to get a little higher up to get her attention. Both were elven. One was dressed in red or a dark orange, with black tattoos. The other on the roof was wearing an eyepatch and dark cloak. Girl-with-the-eyepatch seemed familiar to Valas, but he had a hard time placing her without a better look.

“Yes?” Even her voice was familiar.

“We have reports about the group,” the other woman started but was stopped with a wave and a shaking head.

“Go take those reports to Tiago,” The Raven ordered, “he’ll deliver them to me when I get in. I’m going to stay here for a while longer.”

“As you wish.” With that, the elf dropped down from the windowsill and headed off on her way. Valas moved to follow her.

Tiago was working for this woman? This was what he’d done with his time and freedom? That was far more interesting than what had become of Do’Urden’s warlock in Valas’s book. If the Baenre had found work here, had a foot in the door of Neverwinter, it might aid the Bregan D’aerthe when it came to putting distance between themselves and the City of Spiders.

He tailed the girl to what appeared to be a hastily rebuilt inn. Dim candlelight shined in the windows, the door was heavy and new. Probably barred, if Valas knew anything about guildhouses. However, that knowledge also told him that there would be a back way in, all he had to do was look for it.

Valas found that back way in the form of a faulty window lock on the second floor. It led to an empty room, but at least it got him inside. The door was a bit trickier, not because it was locked, but because it had been blocked by crates of things and leftover building materials. It took all of his strength just to push the door open wide enough to squeeze an arm through to move things and eavesdrop. Eventually, though, he managed to weasel through the door without injuring himself or removing any of his gear. The pile even looked convincing enough that he didn’t need to block his escape route in the name of secrecy. Valas kept near the pile anyway, it was at the end of an ill-used hallway and he could hear a fair amount of the goings-on from this position. Including:

“You cannot be serious,” shouted the elven voice from the street. Valas made his way nearer the source and took a peek at what she was shouting at.

The human woman he’d seen spying on Athrogate and the monk came out of a room, disarming smile doing nothing to soothe the elf’s ire. Her cloak was missing and her clothes were out of place. Behind her, came Tiago, shirt unlaced and untucked, hair mussed. His smile was much more taunting.

Valas rolled his eyes. Such were the Baenre men.

“This is what you’re up to when The Raven’s away?” the elf scolded. “Here I thought you might actually be productive.”

“It won’t happen again,” the human laughed, not seeming embarrassed in the slightest.

The elf was not impressed with the promise and continued to scold them both until Tiago tilted his head and said, “Of course, Matron.” After that, she slapped him across the face and stormed off.

Tiago shot a look at the human and joked, “She hits harder than I’d expect for a caster,” before waving her off on her way. He took a moment to straighten his clothing.

That was when Valas closed the gap between them. “So this was who you were looking for?”

Tiago tried to hide his little jump of surprise, but Valas caught it. “How long have you been there?”

“Does it really matter?”

“What are you doing here?” Tiago narrowed his eyes, then held up a hand, “ _Here_ specifically. I know why you’re in Neverwinter.”

Valas folded his arms and leaned against the wall. “I heard your name in passing, thought I’d come check up on you before Jarlaxle comes calling.”

Tiago’s expression turned sly, “You want something, don’t you?”

Valas matched his look.


	14. Effron’s Endeavors

Effron pressed his palm to the door, a nervous tremor making him light-headed. He wasn’t sure where this surge of anxiety had come from; he made this decision weeks ago, he knew what to expect. Despite all his mental preparations knocking on this particular door seemed to be the most difficult action he could take.

There was no more time. He reminded himself of how close the horde was. He’d seen their line on the way to the cabin. Skeletons were slowly encroaching on the farmlands surrounding the city. It wouldn’t be long before they were out in the open and others joined them. He could feel the chill, a winter wind slicing a midsummer night like so much wheat, of undeath and bleak magic against his back even as he lingered at the door, who knew how close it would be in a few hours. In a few days.

Steeling his resolve, the tiefling closed his hand and knocked. The door swung open immediately.

The woman took a second to recognize him. Her defensive scowl quickly became a look of surprise. She relaxed her stance and tucked a thick red lock of hair behind her ear. “Not the face I was expecting,” Arunika said, suspicious, “What are you doing so far from your friends?”

“I’ve an urgent matter to discuss with you,” Effron said, voice dulling to one of calm professionalism. The same one he had frequently used with Draygo back at Castle Quick.

The woman leaned against the doorframe, a cruel smirk on her face, “Many men who come to my door think their matters are ‘urgent’” she taunted, “What makes yours so special?”

Effron felt a nudge; a pulling somewhere in his thoughts attempting to stir a physical reaction, a small flame under his skin. He snuffed it out with so swiftly Arunika noticed and frowned. “I know what you are, and that’s why I’m here. “

She continued scowling at him for an uncomfortably long moment. Suddenly, she dropped the angry look in favor a curious one. “Interesting,” she purred, and Effron felt the nudge again. “Come in.” With a flourish, Arunika stepped aside to let him in.

The warlock took a deep, shaking breath and stepped over the threshold.

A fire burned at the far side of the room, casting a warm orange glow about the room and deep black swatches of shadow formed irregular shapes on the wall. When viewed out of the corner of his eye, Effron thought the shadows looked eerily similar to people scratching at the walls desperate to escape the blaze. The oppressive, dry heat of the room was almost comforting when compared to the sickly cold that permeated to forest surrounding the little house. A door at the far end of the room stood slightly ajar, anything beyond that was submerged in a blackness so thick one might have thought it was fabric. At the center of the room, her table had an additional chair pulled up to it, ever awaiting a visitor.

“What brings you here?” the woman said, voice taking a cold edge as she shut the door.

Effron let the warmth soothe him somewhat. He could do this, and it needed to be done. The tiefling kept repeating those words over and over again in his mind as he spoke. “I’ve come with a proposition. It is my understanding that Valindra Shadowmantle is not the only master in Ashenglade, and if my comrades and I intend to stop them both, I feel it required to enlist your help.”

“Enlist _how_ , exactly?” she swept across the room and pulled out a chair for him.

Effron gave her a sharp-eyed look as the both sat at the table. “I think you already know.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“That’s what I’ve come to discuss.”

-0-0-0-0-0-

The lich tilted her head to the side, wandering around the completed skeleton, its massive form barely concealed by the tent housing it, and looked reprovingly and Draygo. “So it’s finished,” she chuckled. “When can it fly?”

“Soon.” Draygo promised, “When we’re ready to take the city.”

“We’re ready to take the city now,” Validra argued, stopping her wanderings enough to round on him.

Draygo thunked his staff against the hard packed ground. “That isn’t the _plan_ , Valindra,” he barked as he might have at Effron back in the day, “This isn’t a weapon to _take_ the city. It’s to _hold_ it. When the sun returns the lord will want to take Neverwinter back and they shall be greeted by this and soulless eyes of their townspeople. I won’t have it wasted tearing down walls that are barely held up in the first place.”

The lich’s eyes widened at the tone he took with her. Her gnarled lips parted in a snarl.

“It stays dormant for the siege.” Draygo finished, ignoring the look. “I have my orders and I will hear no more on the matter.”

He walked for maybe five steps before Valindra began to laugh. It was a loud, piercing sound, the kind of laughter that took ages to stop and only did so when the person needed to breathe. “You make it sound,” she shrieked around the laughter, “as though you have the authority to give me orders. A disloyal Shadovar bought on the price of his own stupidity.”

She left the tent and took her screaming with her.

Draygo stared at the tent flap as it swung shut, stunned at the outburst. No matter how long he spent in the Thayan encampment, he would never understand why Validra Shadowmantle had been trusted with anything. Her constructs had done nothing but give away their position and the strength of their force to the world outside. The orders she gave were usually nonsensical at best and many of the Thayan necromancers simply went about their own business. The camp was far from fortified and people were spread out thin. And she kept wanting to simply raid the city with no plans of actually keeping it.

There were, by all accounts, strong forces all around them; drow in Gauntlgrym being the closest. When the sun returned it would be nothing for them to take the city if Thay was not prepared to fortify it better than the original lords had.

But would Valindra listen to these plights? No. Of course not.

“Lord Quick?” Draygo was pulled from his thoughts by a red wizard, an older man with thoroughly tattooed head, addressing him from just inside the tent flap. “A moment?”

“What is it?” The necromancer hobbled over to him. Movement had become a difficult task. Luckily his construct had been strong enough to move the bones for him and hold them while he’d set them in place.

“The paladin has successfully turned,” The wizard informed him. “We thought you might want to have a look at the wraith.”

Draygo nodded. At least Valindra’s magic wasn’t as shoddy as her leadership. He followed the red wizard across the camp, but even from the halfway point, Draygo could tell they were having a hard time wrangling the creature.

“What is this? You just intend to supervise it while it _wanders?_ ” He scolded.

It was a bright thing, made mostly of light; as if they’d captured the moon and given it a human shape. Draygo raised a hand to shield his eyes from it.

“We’ve had two men die from its touch already,” the wizard told him. “It seemed safer to do it this way. It does not seem to wander too far out of or into camp.”

“Not yet anyway,” Draygo sighed, of course something Valindra created would have unpredictable behavior. Such was his luck. “Keep tabs on it, will you? We can’t afford it to turn against us because Valindra’s in a mood.”

The wizard arched a brow then nodded.

At least someone here was cooperating.

-0-0-0-0-0-

By the time Effron was finished explaining his plight, Arunika had rested her chin in her hands and was watching him with muted interest. “A proxy,” she mused, “clever. I’m surprised it took.” She straightened her back and found a more comfortable position in her chair. “One thing I do not understand: why come to me now? I saw you fight your master early in the summer. Why was this not an issue for you then?”

“I had time then,” Effron answered honestly. “Options. Now, my time has run short and I need to act now. I do not have the time or resources to hunt down someone else.”

She looked a little put out, but conceded the point. She held no illusions about being this particular warlock’s first choice. What surprised her most, however, was his manner. Arunika remembered the things Herzgo had said of his son in the few encounters they had after Effron’s arrival in the city. The tiefling had called his twisted son meek and cowardly. Emotional. This was not the young man sitting at her table.

This Effron shared more things with his father than he probably realized; the square of his shoulders and set of his jaw, the look of determination in his face. He was nervous, possibly even frightened, Arunika could tell, but that was not stopping him. His hand teased knots in the table anxiously, he tensed when he met her gaze, but he was not cowering from her.

It was impressive to see. Drizzt Do’Urden chose his friends well these days.

“You speak of Do’Urden’s affliction,” she commented after his words about limits.

That knocked Effron off guard and she saw it. He knew she saw it. “You’ve been watching us.” He said it calmly, and without much emotion. Though, she thought he sounded more offended than surprised. He thought about it for a long moment before saying under his breath but loud enough that she could here, “Either through Drizzt or Artemis. They’re the only ones you’ve been alone with. Drizzt would have been checked out by the priestesses and that look-“ He made a face, “You put something on Entreri.”

Arunika smiled. That display was for her. Part of his proposal to make him look good.

Effron was serious about this, she could tell. From the protective aura to keep him from being taken advantage of, to every display of his intelligence and resolve he could throw at her. He was more than serious, he was desperate. But why? His magic? This city? His friends?

Or something more personal?

Arunika decided that it was too interesting a question to not find out.

“Why do this?” She asked, leaning close. “Why beg me for this? Why not just go without once Quick dies; kill him, be done, wait out the Sundering and find a better alternative?”

Effron scowled at her. “I do not know when this will end, or what other group of people the others might want to try and save. I cannot afford to wait around uselessly while they do.”

And there it was. Intentionally given. Arunika had to appreciate his forwardness. “What are you willing to offer as payment?” She asked. “I am not easily bought.”

The warlock nodded and relayed his terms; they were very similar to the ones that had made up his original pact, minus the proxy and many of the restrictions. He would be able to tap into magic at her courtesy, never to use it against her, in exchange for his loyalty. She would be able to call upon him for information or minor tasks in recompense should he overtax the gifts she gave him.

She nodded along the whole way through. When Effron concluded his offers she added to it, “I would ask one more thing of you. To protect both of our interests. You are to tell no one of this deal or of my true nature. Especially your comrades. Should any would-be heroes come knocking on my door and I have reason to believe you are responsible, the pact will be broken.”

Effron agreed immediately. A knot formed in his chest at the idea of having to potentially lie to his friends, but it was a small price to pay and would eventually be forgotten.

“Now,” Arunika said, voice taking on a lower tone, she leaned forward against the table, “There is one more issue that must be attended to.”

The knot in his chest dropped, leaving a dark, cold pit from his heart all the way to the floor.

“You will be branded a pactbreaker when Draygo Quick dies. You know this and I know this.” She explained, professionalism made sinister by the sharply pointed smile on her face. “Your loyalty will be considered moot in this offer since you were willing to break it before. I will need something to make this deal worth my while.”

Effron’s foot bounced on the floor. His jaw clenched a moment. He’d feared something like this would happen. Draygo had been forced to sacrifice a person when trying to establish Effron’s pact all those years ago, since Effron was too young and infirm to prove himself at the time. His mind rapidly filed through all the potential sacrifices someone like Arunika could request. None of the options were good.

“You’re lucky,” she was saying when Effron finally pulled himself out of his own thoughts, “You happen to still possess something I’m willing to accept as recompense.”

The warlock steeled himself. He’d known this was a very real possibility when he had settled on her as an option. “And what is that?”

She didn’t answer immediately.  Slowly, she rose from her chair, resting her hand on Effron’s good shoulder as she approached him. Her touch was just shy of painfully hot, her guise fading with every step. Bending at the waist she whispered in his ear, “I think you already know.” She tucked her free hand under his chin and forced him to face her. Arunika’s bright eyes caught the light in a terrible way, black sclera making them seem like the eyes of the powerful undead.

Effron shivered in spite of himself.

“Are you willing to accept my price in exchange for my gifts?” She didn’t wait for his answer. Instead, she took a few slow steps away from him and disappeared behind the open door at the back of the cabin.

Effron sat staring at the fire for some time. He could still reject the offer. He was not bound to her yet, he could still leave.

But where would he go? When the fighting started, Quick would most definitely become a target. If he was killed-

If he _could_ be killed. Effron mused. Drizzt had come close before and Draygo had still managed to survive. There was a chance that he might see this fight through and still keep his magic.

No. Quick held on to grudges with an iron grip. He was the type to bring a man back from the dead just to punish him for a personal slight. Effron would never be free of him until he was dead and beyond the saving grace of undeath. Until then both he and everyone he cared for would still be in danger.

His resolve bolstered enough to drown out the anxious shouting of his thoughts, Effron rose from his chair and set to follow Arunika into the back room.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Drizzt excused himself from the group with little more than a hastily uttered apology. It was the first word he’d spoken the whole meal, and he refused to make eye contact with anyone as he rose. As he left, the ranger saw the rest of the group turn curious eyes to Entreri. He could feel the assassin’s gaze boring a hole between his shoulder blades.

When he was out of sight, alone in the second floor hallway, he put his back to the wall and took several deep breaths. This wasn’t the worst thing that could happen, he told himself, far from it. They were just his racial powers. Losing them might have meant his connection to Lolth was severed. That was the opposite of a bad thing, right?

Right?

The sound of his question echoed across his thoughts like a coin dropped down a well with no bottom. He felt empty in that echo, alone, like pieces of him that usually offered him comfort were suddenly missing. Drizzt wondered if this was what losing a limb might feel like.

Either way it was awful.

Running his hands through his hair Drizzt collected himself. He pushed off from the wall and started down the hallway toward his and Artemis’s room. A movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention.

He turned. Just a flickering of the lamplight. Drizzt felt his chest tighten, there was something there, a memory from his childhood that should have stirred, but didn’t. The observation was met with indifferent silence. It ached it was so cold.

Drizzt shook his head, trying to block out the feeling.

Another motion. A shadow at his door. A figure lingering, watching him, just in the shadows. Drizzt could almost swear he saw the outline of that wraith in the darkness. It stopped him short, heart thundering against his breastbone.

No. Drizzt set his jaw and steeled himself. Even if that creature was here, he had no cause to fear it. The last time he’d encountered it he was weak; freshly freed from a prison, unarmored with little in the way of weapons. He was read this time for whatever this creature wanted to throw at him. Defiant, Drizzt marched across the hall, and through the door.

Before he could shut it, he heard footsteps behind him.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Dahlia sat with her legs dangling off the roof’s edge, cowl pulled low over her face. She’d been sitting on that roof for hours watching the city’s only entrance.

How long had it been since he left? The elf wondered. She’d forgotten to start any form of time keeping and every second was beginning to feel like several minutes. More than once she caught herself humming barely-familiar melodies to pass the time. What could he have possibly left this long for? Where did he go?

Her first instinct had been to follow Effron when he left the city. To tail him through the forest and catch him in some sinister act of betrayal. Dahlia had shaken her head at the idea. After the very real threat Effron had issued at their last meeting, it was very hard to believe he would betray anyone, except perhaps himself. She mused about where he might go instead as she approached the wall but ultimately decided to not pass through the still-open gates. He was probably going to investigate the undead, and her time in Thay was long enough to learn that only necromancers might pass unseen through their ranks. Her presence would have put them both in danger and the last thing she needed were the rest of his friends thinking she set him up.

So, Dahlia resigned herself to wait. Effron was by himself and in the event he did return to the city, he would not do so through a secret route. If he did not, then the information she currently had might be easily sold to his friends, through a proxy of course.

After a while, Dahlia began to check over her shoulder, adjusting her eyepatch whenever she straightened her neck. The new one fit better, but itched something unmerciful. With a sigh of relief she removed it. It wasn’t like there was anyone around to wince at the site of the scarred socket and the slightly too small magical orb situated within.  She wondered what it had been used for before Tiago had given it to her, and where the drow had gotten it. It seemed so as though, as it rested within the confines of her skull, letting her see things nigh invisible and improving her darkvision whenever she exposed it to open air, was its true purpose. She could not be certain, however, and resolved to ask him about it later.

She was pulled from her thoughts by motion out of the corner of her eye. Guards approaching the gates only to lower their weapons as soon as Effron revealed himself. He spoke with them at length, gesturing out at the forest in a wide arc, and they let him pass.

Something was off. Dahlia hesitated in replacing her eyepatch, more concerned with watching him carefully. His movements were stiff and he wasn’t walking at his usual gait. If she had to guess, Dahlia would think he was injured, but she couldn’t see a scratch on him. Maybe there were bruises now, he was caught in scuffle with some stragglers, fell, some such thing.

She tailed him on the rooftops. He was gaining strength as he moved, as if the motion of walking worked out the stiffness in his limbs. Just before he arrived at the inn he was sharing with his group he froze. The warlock backed into a shadowed space between two buildings and hid there for some time.

Dahlia saw him, trembling a bit and collecting himself with several gulping breaths. Despite her feelings about the man, the elf felt her heart skip a beat at the sight. What in the hells had he seen out there?

She would have killed to have been able to have ears follow him into that inn. To get her hands on that information straight from the source. Having to sacrifice that irked her and she stared at the inn’s door angrily for some time.

Her frustration evaporated when she saw Artemis Entreri storm out of the building and walk with such purpose and anger that his limp was hardly noticeable.


	15. Misplaced

No matter how much effort Drizzt put into it later, he would not remember how the argument began or even what had sustained it other than his own stubborn anger, only what had happened to end it. The rage-heated air quickly leaving the room a suffocating vacuum of emotion. How his hands shook, short nails digging into his palms as he watched the door swing into place, its lock _thunking_. A few blank moments of tightly clenched teeth and forced breath as emptiness turned into fury once more. And last, how he sat among a heap of torn bed sheet listening to the quiet of the empty room. That silent space felt like a draft, soothing his anger until only shame and regret remained. _What had he done?_

If he were asked to guess, which he eventually was, he would say the fight began when Artemis slipped into their shared room behind him. First a soft and gentle inquiry, then something more forceful when Drizzt refused to answer any questions beyond the casual acknowledgement that a question had been asked. Eventually, Drizzt’s quips turned scathing when Artemis would not relent and things escalated from there.

 “Enough,” Artemis had said harshly, putting his hand on Drizzt’s arm and forcing the elf to face him. “I grow tired of this.”  They hadn’t been going back and forth that long, but Artemis’s patience was already running thin.

Drizzt had looked at him wide-eyed, but his mask of false confusion barley held under the weight of the man’s terrible stare.

“You’re avoiding me,” Artemis accused, “Why?”

“I’m not-“ Drizzt tried to defend himself, but this time his resolve did waver. He chewed his lip and said nothing more.

“Yes you are,” the human squeezed the elf’s arm a little, “Was it not you that said you wanted to fix things between us? That you wanted my trust back? One does not earn it by blatantly lying. Now, tell me. What has been going on? I know I haven’t been able to involve myself with the wall of dwarf standing between me and the party, but I’m neither blind nor stupid. Explain yourself.”

The drow shook his head, hair falling free from its place on his shoulder. “Artemis, really. Nothing is-“ again, he trailed off, unable to complete the lie.

“When you came to me in Port Llast,” Artemis said, pulling his hand away and backing to a safe distance, “you said you wanted armor. In Gauntlgrym I swore to you that you were stuck with me –be it as an enemy or a friend- no matter what bizarre thing you did. And yet, when I offer you my ear and my protection, for you are clearly in danger, you refuse to accept either.”

Drizzt swallowed around the tightness in his throat and nearly choked for the effort. His gaze dropped to the floor guiltily. He said nothing. Silence dragged on between them; whether it filled the space of seconds or hours, Drizzt could not tell in the dim candlelight. Regardless of the length, Artemis waited in quiet patience for an answer that was not coming.

“Drizzt?” he prompted, waving his hand a little to get the ranger’s attention. ”Still with me?”

Purple eyes snapped up instantly, “Yes, I- Can we just drop this, Artemis? Really, there’s nothing to worry about.”

“No,” the assassin said flatly, “Not after what I saw earlier.”

Drizzt stiffened a chill running through his blood. Artemis had seen that? Had been _spying_ on him when his back was turned? The ranger’s fear and guilt suddenly turned to fury. “’What you saw’?” He asked, “You watched me?”

“It’s not like you’re talking to anyone,” Artemis countered.

“You could have _asked_ ,” the drow snapped at him. “Instead of tailing me like I’m some,” he stammered, “Some spy or-or- _hazard_.”

The assassin said nothing, only folded his arms and watched him. He was waiting for Drizzt’s surge of anger to die. But, for some reason that look was only making it worse.

“Is that supposed to somehow help me? Or make me feel better? To know that you’re watching me when I’m not aware.” Drizzt demanded, hoping to break that stoic silence.

Artemis sighed. “No. I want you to _say_ something before monitoring your behavior becomes necessary.” He shifted his weight, “Drizzt, I know you. I know you better than I know most people. If I had tried to confront you without any information you would have dismissed me. You just tried to a few _seconds_ ago until I told you I spied on you.” He held out his hands and shrugged. “I did not do this to fight with you. There are easier ways to do that.”

The ranger ground his teeth together, frustrated. “No one asked you to go so far out of your way,” he snipped. “No one asked you to pretend to care so much.”

“Your wife shot me in the chest and dragged me to another plane to do just that,” the human retorted before the second half of Drizzt’s barb sank in. “I nearly lost a _limb_ going into the Underdark to get you, and you think I don’t _care_?”

This time it was Drizzt’s turn to stand defiant, but his anger was waning. He’d miscalculated and some level he knew it.

“You’ve put me through the rings for you ever since we left Icewind Dale.” There wasn’t anger in Artemis’s voice. Not real anger, anyway. More a grinding, bitter frustration. “And still you refuse to cooperate with me.”

“I cannot force you to stay,” Drizzt bit back, “You are free to leave-“

“To go out into this unnatural darkness, with an undead horde near the roads, and do _what?_ ”

Drizzt didn’t have an answer for that. A surge of guilt washed over him. It made the sharp acidity of bile rise up in his throat and it made him _angrier_.

What has gotten _into_ you? You’re not like this.” The human’s brow furrowed but Drizzt couldn’t tell if it was frustration, confusion, or concern anymore. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“Nothing-“

“Stop lying!” Artemis snapped loudly. “Stop avoiding me and getting defensive when I try to help you. We are not _enemies_ anymore.”

“Help me?” Drizzt shouted, “This is _helping?_ If it is, it certainly is it for me. You only want to stop me from being an inconvenience for you. To be manageable.”

“You are a _danger_.” Was the argument, “Not just to me, but to yourself. I’m not going to watch you self-destruct because you’re _stubborn_. It drives me mad.”

There was something else there. Something unspoken. Something Drizzt should have seen but didn’t in his anger. That Artemis didn’t want to see so much of himself in the ranger. Didn’t want to see him go down a road already trod that led to a horrible place.

“I did not mean to _burden_ you so.” Drizzt said darkly.

Artemis didn’t flinch. “You have plagued my conscience since we last parted ways. The _burden_ I can handle. It is the resistance I cannot.”

The next words came out of Drizzt’s mouth before he even thought them, “Then perhaps _I_ should have killed you, instead.” He turned away, tired of Entreri’s harsh gaze. Under his breath the words, “If only I could do so now,” tumbled forward in his own voice.

Less than a heartbeat and Drizzt heard the words, understood their meaning, and felt his heart sink through him so far he wouldn’t be able to retrieve it if he dug for days. “I- no. I didn’t-“ He turned in place, trying to stammer a correction, an admission of anger, of fear, of _something_.

But the door was already closing.

The sinking feeling turned into a chill. He knew better to pursue, to pick a fight out in the open, and that knowledge froze him in place until the lock caught on its own. At the sound, he sank to the floor, hands trembling with something between fear and anger.

Somewhere distant, Drizzt thought he heard laughing.

Then fury took over and the rest would be beyond his ability to recall.

-0-0-0-0-0-

It started as a tingling in the back of his neck, an itching behind his ears. Something was amiss, Kimmuriel could tell, but he couldn’t quite place what. He spent more and more time out of his office, wandering about among the men listening and observing. There was unease. Word of Quenthel’s policies in Menzoberranzan had reached them. Many feared she would move against them in Luskan.

That fear troubled Kimmuriel. He and Jarlaxle had informed them only of Quenthel’s actions within the city. They had said absolutely nothing considering further retaliation. Even if they had they would have never told them that she would march this far across the surface to do so.

Misinformation kept cropping up in other ways too. Word that an alliance with Gromph had fallen through, that they would never be able to return to their homeland, that Jarlaxle had failed them. It made Kimmuriel’s stomach ache to feel such obvious distress even vicariously. The men were slowly being demoralized right before him.

Jarlaxle had noticed it too, but to a lesser degree. He did what he could to quell fear and bolster morale where he could. Somewhere in between pouring over maps and waiting with bated breath for word from Gromph or this emissary he was sending. Kimmuriel spent many nights up with him, sitting on the arm of his couch trying to come up with alternative routes if the deal _did_ fall through. But it was wearing the mercenary thin. Kimmuriel saw the luster leave him, the bravado mute slowly over time.

Something needed to be done about these men.

The Oblodra knew that he wasn’t even close to a halfway decent public speaker. That just wasn’t his place. But routing out cowards was another animal entirely.

So, Kimmuriel went on the hunt. It was considerably more difficult in such a small space, but with fewer men separating those he’d already looked into and those he had not was relatively uncomplicated. He didn’t tell Jarlaxle of his plan, on the off chance this unease did prove to not be the cause of a single individual spreading fear.

He caught the coward a few days into his search, but didn’t confront him. Something wasn’t right about this. This man’s face was unfamiliar, and with a group so much smaller Kimmuriel hoped he’d be able to recognize most of them. But there was something else. Something the psionicist didn’t notice until he’d gotten the man alone, by tasking him with some menial chore.

There was no fear in this man.

His words were not borne of cowardice, but _disloyalty_. Kimmuriel ground his teeth together. How, after everything, could people be so disloyal? Even at his lowest point, Kimmuriel had always been loyal to the men. To the guild.

When he tried to look deeper, to listen in on this soldier’s thoughts, hunting for the crux of that disloyalty, he was rebuffed. That was all the proof Kimmuriel needed.

“That is all,” he said stiffly, dismissing the man. It tested his patience to linger in the common areas for an hour, to be calm and not rattle through a plan for dealing with a spy immediately.

By the time he reached Jarlaxle’s office, however, he had an idea.

“Jarlaxle,” he hissed, poking his head in the door without knocking. When he saw the mercenary was there and alone giving him a strange look, the psionicist ducked in and locked the door behind him. “I need something. An item.”

“Check the stock room” Jarlaxle replied, looking confused.

“I don’t think it’s in there,” Kimmuriel crossed the room. “It would have been recovered from House Oblodra.”

That got the mercenary’s undivided attention. “What’s going on?”

“Quenthel sent us a gift, and I would like to use it at least once before returning it.”

Jarlaxle tilted his head, curious at the first statement, then felt a chill at the second. Arching a brow he asked Kimmuriel what he needed and if he could be observed.

The Oblodra agreed and explained his plan.

-0-0-0-0-0-

“What the hell was that about?” Afafrenfere looked up just in time to catch the tail-end of Artemis leaving the inn. He turned in his chair to look at Effron. The warlock only shrugged lopsidedly and looked just as confused. Instinctively, the monk turned his eyes to the other chairs, only to realize that the dwarves had finished their meals and left. And they expected him to do the same.

“I wish I could tell you more,” the monk said, “And I expect a full explanation about why you were so late coming back.” He added on a stern tone, similar to the one his mother used to pull on him, “But I need to catch up with Amber and Athrogate. Can you-?”

“I’ll check on Drizzt,” Effron said with a nod. He’d planned to go to bed anyway. Afafrenfere agreed that he looked like he desperately needed the sleep. “Make sure Entreri doesn’t kill anyone. We need all the manpower we can get.”

“If that man pulls a knife on someone,” the human laughed, rising from his chair, “I’m not going to stand in his way. I don’t want to die.”

“Excellent point.”

The two men parted ways at the base of the stairs. Afafrenfere took off at a brisk jog as soon as he’d made it through the door. That kind of anger would put Artemis on a straight-line path at least for a few minutes. He hoped that would be enough time for him to catch up at a safe distance.

He was lucky and he knew it. This wasn’t the first time his luck had paid off either. More often than not he’d been scolded for relying on his luck in combat, dubbed over-confident, and told that confidence would lead to tragedy, or his ultimate undoing. He remembered Parbid’s comments when Effron had hired them. That two elves were no match for the three of them, not with his strength and Afafrenfere’s dumb luck.

And now he was dead and Afafrenfere scolded himself for continuing to dwell on his memory. He had more important things to think about now. He wished some of that focusing meditation business the monks at the monastery had preached about was actually useful.

He sighed. Not much he could do about it now.

The monk followed his friend deep into the city and far from where he’d promised to meet up with Athrogate and Ambergris. The Winged Wyvern bridge to be exact. Afafrenfere was surprised to see Entreri stop there. He could have sworn Artemis hated this bridge.

Afafrenfere stood off to the side, just out of sight, and watched Entreri pace up and down the length of the foot bridge until his limp returned. He continued to limp in his pattern until his leg tried to give out and he had to lean against the railing for support. The monk took the opportunity when Artemis’s back was to him, to duck under the bridge. He hoped that Artemis would vent, rant at the darkness, or otherwise clue him in to what happened on his own.

But the voice he heard first was female and dishearteningly familiar.

“Trouble in paradise?” Dahlia teased, her booted feet clicking as she approached. “So soon?”

“Go away, Dahlia.” Artemis growled warningly. This was the most angry Afafrenfere had ever heard him.

The clicking didn’t stop, but it slowed. “Come now, Artemis. I thought we were on better terms.”

“I thought,” the assassin snarled, “that someone with your history would have a better understanding of the word ‘no’.” His voice lowered, “Yet you continue to prove me wrong.”

This time the clicking stopped. Afafrenfere had to admit that was an intense blow to deal someone. He almost felt a twinge of sympathy for Dahlia. Almost.

There was a long silence. Afafrenfere felt the tension weigh down on him.

“What are you doing here?” Artemis’s voice grumbled. “Why are you approaching me? Why now?”

A pause, Afafrenfere pictured Dahlia shrugging. “You seem to have splintered from your group. Perhaps I’ve come to recruit you as a valuable asset. Or even offer my services.”

“Services?” There was more than a healthy amount of skepticism there.

Dahlia’s boots clicked once. “I have eyes and ears all over this place now. I know what your friends have been up to.”

Judging by the silence that followed, she didn’t get Entreri’s attention. Afafrenfere silently rooted for things to stay that way. It dragged on long enough that even the most foolhardy would get the hint and walk away, but Dahlia’s boots made no sound against the cobblestones. The monk cursed his position now, sure he could hear the conversation, but he couldn’t see their faces. Were they looking at each other? Was Artemis pointedly looking away from her? What was going on?

“Dahlia,” Artemis called quietly as soon as the elf’s boots clicked again. “Wait.”

“Yes?”

“I might have some use for you.” He said. “Not your spies. _You._ ”

“Oh?” the boots clicked closer, stopping roughly next to Artemis. “What is it?”

The assassin hesitated. “I need a few things. Better armor,” a pause, possibly an unseen gesture, “and a spy.”

There was some time before Dahlia answered. “I’ll see what I can do about the armor. Not really the climate for it. The spy job?”

“I need someone to keep an eye on Do’Urden.” Artemis said, barely more than a whisper. “He’s behaving strangely and I can’t have eyes on him all the time.”

“Can’t take him running off to his homeland again?” the woman teased but was only met with a sharp request to be serious.

Artemis sighed heavily, “Forget I said anything. I rescind my offer.”

Dahlia sounded a little desperate, “No, no. I can handle this. How long do you want me to watch him for? What am I looking for?”

“Strange behavior. Anything out of the ordinary. He stares off into the darkness for too long I want to know about it.”

Afafrenfere chewed his lip. What in hells was Artemis doing? Placing a spy detail on Drizzt? To what purpose? Why not just-

He stopped arguing since Dahlia put his thoughts into words. “Why can’t you and your friends do this yourselves? Why not talk to _him_?”

 “I attempted both of these things. The others are busy with this mission and when I confronted Drizzt about these secrets he told me I would be better off dead than worrying about him. So, I am at an impasse. I cannot confront him without knowing what he’s doing, and he will not come forward or admit to anything. I need to get the information somehow.”

“And if he finds out?”

“If you are worth anything,” Artemis countered, “he shouldn’t.”

“What of the others?”

“This is not an easy decision or an easy time. When Drizzt fled to Menzoberranzan it was after sabotaging another Neverwinter rescue effort and forcing a retreat. We can’t afford to have that happen a second time. Not with so much at stake. I will not die here simply because Drizzt Do’Urden chose to not be forward with me.”

Dahlia accepted his offer when he told her what coinage he was willing to pay, and Afafrenfere nearly screamed in frustration.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Effron heard the commotion from the stairwell and sped up his pace as he crossed the hall. When he reached the door, the noise had died down to silence. Hesitantly, Effron knocked on the door, close to the lock. When there was no answer, he tried the handle. Unlocked. He pushed the door open slightly, peeking in.

The room had been trashed, light pieces of furniture overturned. Many odds and ends spread out across the floor with strips and scraps of fabric or piles of pillow down.

Effron’s already frayed nerves took another hit as a wave of concern hit him. “Drizzt?” he called, voice shaking a little. He felt as though he was suspended in water; too light but sluggish in his movements. “What happened? Are you-“ He pushed the door open the rest of the way and got a better look at the destruction. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Drizzt sighed when Effron drew closer. He was sitting on the floor with his back one of the beds just out of sight of the door.

Effron made a face, standing at the foot of the bed looking down at the ranger, “This is fine? I’d hate to see what distressed is.”

Drizzt cringed, still staring at the floor, baring his teeth and tearing the small section of fabric in his hands.

The tiefling frowned at the display and moved to sit opposite the ranger against the neighboring bed. His own woes forgotten for a moment, Effron just watched Drizzt with a look of unfiltered concern for some time. After a while, he asked, “What happened?” in a soft, gentle voice, “What’s going on?”

Lifting his gaze, Drizzt watched him. He looked exhausted and sad. “It would seem,” he said, a little shaky, “I have misplaced my feelings.” There was a pause. Before Effron could ask what he meant, he continued. “I turned everything into anger and pointed that anger at those not wholly deserving. I said things I didn’t mean and I can’t take back now.” He sighed, tying a knot in the fabric in his hands.

Effron took his time processing the words. Between the dark room and the proximity it was almost like they were in Draygo’s trap again; sharing stories and muddling through. Drizzt must have felt the same way, he seemed a bit more open to talking than in previous days. “What was the fight about?” he asked, surveying the room. Whatever it was it must have been bad.

“He was worried about me.” Was all Drizzt said.

The warlock blinked at him, confused. “That can’t be all,” he prompted when Drizzt didn’t continue.

Purple eyes met his mismatched ones. “He confronted me. Gave voice to his concern. But I felt- I felt like it was too late.” He sighed and ran his hands through his hair, “I feel foolish now. I know what has been happening. The world going dark, his injury, the journey here, but still I was angry with him. No- not with,” he shook his head, “ _at_. I was angry at him, but I do not think he was the source.”

“If not him then what?” Talking seemed to be helping, Effron wasn’t about to let him stop now.

“Myself,” Drizzt said, but it was more question than statement. “All these _things_ that keep happening even though I’m- I _thought_ this was over with.” He leaned back against the bed and looked up at the ceiling. “This thing tormenting me.”

Effron tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

“The- The wraith I saw in the pit,” Drizzt said with a gesture. “I keep- I keep seeing it.”

The warlock’s mouth pulled into a thin line. That was a disconcerting statement. “Are- are you sure? I know that darkness like this can-“

“I know what I saw,” Drizzt snapped at him, but forced himself to calm down. “I know what I saw,” he repeated, quieter. “And that’s not the only thing. It’s like _pieces_ of me are missing. Memories, skills, they’re just gone. As though someone stole them from me.”

Effron felt his heart sink. “Did you tell Artemis any of this?”

The drow shook his head. “No. I didn’t get that far. He- He told me he saw me struggling with-“ he gestured, “with my drow magic and I lost my temper at him for spying on me.”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing I want to repeat.”

That made the tiefling feel a little sick. He’d known, just like the others, that Drizzt and Artemis’s relationship was in a rough patch and that Drizzt’s affliction was still a real problem, but he had no idea that things had gone so wrong for his friend. A cold pang of guilt shot through his heart. How much of this had been the fault of his neglect? Of anyone’s? How did this go so long unnoticed?

“I’m sorry,” Effron said softly without realizing. “How can I help?” He reasoned that focusing on Drizzt might be enough to distract him from his own burdens for now.

Drizzt took a deep breath, thinking. He looked at the destruction about the room. “Help me clean this up?” he asked, “Artemis will be back for his things at some point. I’d rather they be easy to find.”

As they both rose from their seats, Effron asked, “Just for his things? You think he’ll leave?”

“After what I said, I would not blame him.”

A frown. He wasn’t sure how comfortable he was leaving Drizzt completely alone in his current state if this was the kind of havoc he would inflict on his room. It wouldn’t be long before some of that rage stopped destroying items and started on flesh and bone. Effron had watched enough people go mad in the dungeons of Castle Quick to recognize the pattern. “I can bunk with you,” He suggested, “until you two sort things out. If- If you want the company that is.”

Drizzt mulled the suggestion over as the two of them righted furniture and collected the scraps of torn bedding. “I’d like that,” he finally answered when they were finished. “Some,” he faltered, not wanting to say the words, “Some space might be good. For both of us. Telling him he doesn’t have to sleep in here might be helpful in convincing him to stay in the same building as us.”

Effron nodded, arguments cropped up on the tip of his tongue but he refused to give them a voice. At least for now.

Artemis returned some time later and had, as Drizzt predicted, only gone to their shared room to collect his things. When he did, Effron tried to speak with him, tell him of the new sleeping arrangement; Artemis across the hall with Afafrenfere, Effron with Drizzt. The assassin agreed to it immediately. Before Effron could even finish speaking.

“What did he say?” Effron asked in a harsh whisper, following Artemis into the hall when the assassin left the room. “What the hell happened?”

Artemis tensed, hand on the door handle to the room across the hall. After a second, he relaxed, “It doesn’t matter now. If- If I know him as well as I think I do, he didn’t mean it. Not the way it came across anyway.” He turned back to Effron. “Still stings though.”

“I imagine it does if Drizzt won’t even repeat it,” Effron joked.

“How much did he tell you?”

Effron relayed most of his conversation with Drizzt, talking in a low voice and ultimately ducking into the room across the hall with Artemis to collect his own things. Out of the corner of his eye, Effron could see the human shaking his head. He looked just as tired as Drizzt had earlier.

“What are we going to do about this?” Effron asked as he left.

Artemis looked at him as if he had intended to ask Effron the same question.

“Survive the battle,” he said with a shrug, “and take it from there.”

Neither liked that answer and they both doubted the others would too, but there wasn’t much they could do about it now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the almost two month wait, guys! Shenanigans and classes, life's kinda been a clusterfuck lately.  
> Hope you enjoy these three chapters and they make up for the delay.
> 
> Gonna try and get back into my regular writing, but with Fall Semester starting and taking 3 sciences, I may not have much time. Apologies in advance.


	16. More Than An Absence

They called them days; marked in different ways for different reasons. Civilians kept time by the lighting of the torches and sconces, the passing of the guards, when their bodies told them enough was enough and dragged them, confused and resistant into sleep. Ambergris kept time by the number of times she walked the length of the wall.

Two was a day for her now.

Effron would argue, when she returned dragging Athrogate grumbling behind her, that more time had passed by his more scientific counting-and-hourglass system. Ambergris didn’t care and dismissed him every time. This was what time was now, and no amount of numbers on a page would convince her otherwise.

The others, of course, kept by Effron’s makeshift clock. The cleric couldn’t blame them. Arbitrary numbers were easier than trying to feel something that wasn’t really there anymore.

She didn’t think Athrogate kept time at all. He just waited at the gate, looming and staring out into the blackness inching fuzzy and surreal across the rolling farmlands. The illusion of trees too far and too black to be visible on the horizon taunted them with its secrets; the monstrosity hidden within. Twice Ambergris would pass him, and twice he would only spare her a glance. Then she would pull him away by his arm. He’d resist, rooted in place, more occupied with his waiting than food or sleep or companionship. Ambergris debated asking him about it at first, but thought better of it.

She would wonder if he would have answered her anyway as she walked and walked.

They used to join the others for dinner, eating as a group trying to make conversation and coordinate plans. But now, something had shifted. Afafrenfere had given her the gist of it; the schism finally made pronounced enough to no longer ignore between Artemis and Drizzt. Neither would join them for meals. Drizzt eating earlier, Artemis later, both of them less often. Effron joined Drizzt usually. Artemis kept to himself.

She had sighed then, ran a hand over her face. “Why now?” She grumbled, only to see Afafrenfere shrug in response.

Athrogate laughed under his breath. When the cleric glared at him, he softened. “Calamity brings out things in people. Unsavory things.”

She couldn’t tell if he was joking.

“And great things,” Ambergris countered, her voice jagged and sharp, daring him to argue with her.

“Depends on the person really, doesn’t it?” was all he said, returning to his own drink.

The cleric sighed, slumping into her chair. She took a deep breath, running her hands through her hair and shaking loose the braids and knots that caught around her fingers. “Well,” she said finally, turning back to Afafrenfere, “They better be ready for whatever happens here. We’re still committed to this place.”

“They are,” the monk replied, “I know that much.” And that was the end of it. No more to be said or done. Drizzt and Artemis wanted to fight, that was their business now. She wasn’t about to lose sleep over it. There were plenty of other things to lose sleep over.

Sleep was much like time nowadays; coming and going as it pleased. Often she found herself being roused by a hand on her shoulder or a shifting in the bed instead of waking up on her own. Ambergris spent more time than she was comfortable admitting staring into darkness and blinking stinging pinpricks from her eyes or burying her face into her already damp pillow until it was too warm to breathe. But it did come, it did pass, awful as it was.

Athrogate never asked her about it and she was grateful.

On their way to the wall they would talk about nothing in particular; some of it planning or methods to deal with the humans. Light-hearted, easy conversations they knew would be overheard and thought little of. The same things, day in and out.

“How much longer are we waiting?” Ambergris asked, pulling Athrogate aside before he could refill his boot prints from the day before.

“Dunno,” Athrogate replied, nonchalant to the point of being distant, “Suppose it’ll be whenever the scouts say they see the dead bein’ mobile.”

She furrowed her brow, “I’m surprised ye’re willin’ to just wait forever.”

“I’m not,” Athrogate scowled at her, “But we’ve got no army to strike at ‘em with, Ambergris. Just a bunch o’ peasants with pitchforks. Ye heard Effron at the last guard meeting: shit won’t do anything against the dead.”

She caught him by the arm as he turned away, “Doing nothing isn’t helping either.”

“Listen,” He sighed, looking more like himself in that moment than he had in weeks, “If I thought I could get away with goin’ down there meself, I _would_. I wanna bust some dead heads so badly I can’t even see straight sometimes.”

“Then why haven’t ye tried?”

“Ye’d follow me. An’ the others’d follow ye.” Athrogate grit, frustrated. Their voices were rising, guards turned to face them firelight glinting off thin, dented armor.

Ambergris ignored them, sending a pointed look Athrogate’s way for a few seconds before deflating. “That would leave them defenseless.”

Athrogate grunted in something that sounded like the affirmative. “And the guards are useless fer all their swords an’ shields. Maybe we should take the risk anyway”

The cleric hung her head running gloved hands through her tangled hair. “No,” she grumbled. It amazed her to no small amount that Athrogate had managed to restrain himself so long. “No, we came here to protect the people not put ‘em in danger by inciting the enemy early.”

“Lookin’ at the stores, they’re in danger anyway, Gristle.”

“And yet you haven’t acted on yer own,” She snapped. Her heart might soften at the name, but such obviously manipulative use of it wasn’t about to stand.

Athrogate’s eyes went dark again, distant like they had been for weeks. For a moment, she saw something, a primal, feral chomping. She wanted to throw something at him and even started looking around for projectiles.

“This is bigger’n us,” he said, finally, pulling her attention back up. “Bigger’n  any o’ the people here, ye know that.”

Her heart sank. _Szass Tam._

“So we just wait?”

He leaned against the wall. “Until somethin’ tips the scale and makes somebody act, yeah. They gotta move first. Don’t gotta be much. Just enough to tip a hand. Then we can move, know where they’re expectin’ us. Instead o’ just runnin’ headlong into death.”

Something about his tone left a sour taste in her mouth, but before she could ask him about it, he’d pushed off the wall to start his rounds.

-0-0-0-0-0-

The smells of dirt and decay still stung her nose even as the orc settled on a thick branch, her feet dangling in open air. She hated that late-summer smell when things were too hot and dying off before the autumn cold could freeze them; it almost made her miss the mountains but rarely for very long. Over her shoulder on the next branch up Rogtha heard her son whimper quietly. She turned and narrowed her eyes at him, trying to make out his shape in the darkness; it wasn’t hard with how much he was moving, hand clasped to his chest in the darkness.

“Still, pup,” she growled at him. The black shapes staggering between the trees were getting close enough that their low growls and groans drifted up between the trees. Taking her eyes off her son for a second, the ranger scanned what she could of the forest floor below. Her bear was well out of her sight and she hoped the beasts wouldn’t find her companion before she had taken to a tree herself.

“It hurts-“ Faol mumbled sleepily, picking at the wrapping on his hand. “My whole arm hurts.”

Rogtha tried to ignore the gnawing worry. The dead had bled all throughout the forest and even the roads now. Some had fallen apart as soon as she’d struck them once with the hard curve of her bow, but others. She shuddered, remembering the blighted yellow thing that had ripped her from her saddle. All teeth and claws and impossible wiry strength; it hadn’t hurt her much, but it had bitten the boy. Something tugged at her thoughts, but she shook it off. Faol had seemed well enough at the time, if a little shaken and feverish afterward, but he’d always been a sickly child. That wasn’t new.

“I know, pup.” Rogtha whispered back, “I know. Just be still.”

He made an affirmative noise and curled closer to the trunk of the tree, making himself as still and as small as possible.

Heavy boots crunched through the festering undergrowth, snapping twigs and pressing roots into the soil. With every fall came the rattle of metal, a growl, a rasping breath. Rogtha swiveled in place, straddling the branch and peering around the trunk and trying to focus on the sound. A pair of large men, or she thought they were men, in armor were picking their way through the throng of shambling little creatures. The one in plate mail, taking uneven, shuffling steps appeared to be roughly Rogtha’s height and just as broad. His armor flashed with every step, helm’s visor rattling in its housing. Beside him, was an even bigger man in patchwork leather, a painted mask and hood obscuring his face.

The orc’s first thought was of highwaymen. They looked like capable enough fighters, possibly non-human, they could set up shop and block caravans in this portion of the woods. She pulled down her bow and whited her knuckles on the grip, string digging into her bracer. Hopefully they wouldn’t notice them; she knew it wasn’t safe to leave them alive, but engaging was just as bad an idea with her limited supplies.

The larger of the pair stopped short a few trees away. The plated one soon stooped too, turning in place and shuffling back to his companion. They lingered there for some time not appearing to be talking or planning anything, just standing there, waiting. Moments passed and Rogtha adjusted her grip.

Below her, the black shapes from before were loping back the way they’d come as though dogs called by some unheard whistle back to their masters. A dozen or more must have moved beneath her feet. She wasn’t counting. Couldn’t count with her eyes so trained on the pair. She heard a few of the beasts collect around the trees, growling at each other and occasionally climbing over each other. The ranger paid them no mind.

Until something jarred her foot.

Over two decades of being a huntsman was the only thing that kept her still, not even chancing a breath lest she give away that she wasn’t actually part of the tree. Whatever it was stayed at her left heel, growling quietly. Out of the corner of her eye, Rogtha tried to get a look at it and slowly reached back for her arrows. It was one of those willowy, waxy-skinned monstrosities with too-many teeth and claws so long it was hard to tell where the fingers started if they started at all.

It sniffed the air from its perch on a branch, a few others growling at it from below, a strange throaty sound. The angle was all wrong for Rogtha to knock it from its perch and even if she did, as badly as she wanted to split its face open, it would give away her and her son’s positions. She let her hand linger on a handful of her arrows, ready to pull them free of their home in a soft piece of the trunk at even the slightest provocation. It could still leave, she reminded herself, she could engage later when she was on her own.

Rogtha blinked and the underbrush had erupted with noise. The monster at her boot shrieked and lunged for her, leaving the orc with little choice but to kick it away, off the branch and into its companions. She heard the boy above her call out, but didn’t make out what he said between the sudden discordant howling and the sounds of her arrows singing through the air to _thunk_ home in any toothy face that clawed too close.

They were faster than her and more numerous. The two armored figures were drawing closer now and Rogtha couldn’t decide if she should waste the shots on them. A pair of hands gripped her by the boot and tugged, sending a shot wide. Another pair found her belt. She was going to fall.

The orc grabbed as many arrows as she could fit in her hand and let them pull her down. One of the creatures broke her fall with a sickening sound and teeth tangled in her hair. The other gnawed at her boot despite being twisted into an impossible shape. Winded and bruised, Rogtha slammed her heel into its face until it stopped moving entirely.

A dull ache pulsed in her back, her breath short and heart still jittery from the freefall. She stayed prone, breathing and listening, watching the monsters gather and attack each other. Bow still gripped tightly in one hand, she felt through the soft, rotten leaves and grass for soil, roots, something. _Anything._ Her gloved fingers sank deep into packed earth and whatever was seeping out of the creature pinned under her back. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath to start chanting and with a few free fingers on the hand still holding her bow, dug through the patch on her belt for her stash of sharpened thorns.

The one nearest her tripped and tangled itself in the sharp, hollow protrusions that sprouted up around her fingertips. Others coming closer, stumbled and collided as their feet were stuck, then their knees and the rest of them. A few of the thorns poked Rogtha herself when they managed to pierce through flesh and sinew keeping her off the ground. Careful, the orc picked her way to her feet and saw every creature that had spotted her was struggling to get closer and tearing themselves to shreds in the process.

Much better. But there was still the matter of the tree. The one of the monsters had taken up her position midway up and-

A shrill scream cut the air and caught everything’s attention.

“Faol-“ Rogtha hastily looked around for her dropped arrows. She only needed one. Just one and she could clear the tree. He would be safe. But the dark metal of her ammunition blended in so well-

He was screaming for help now. She could hear the rustling of leaves as he was scrambling to get away. She only needed _one_.

_Crack!_

She found an arrow and knocked it into place. She didn’t bother to aim at any one creature in particular, bloodthirst and panic blocking out all other judgment. With a shout the ranger let fly into the thickest part of the throng scrabbling at the branches. Her arrow struck true in one, and it and the others burst full of bloody holes as if the wind itself had pierced them. Those climbing fell onto their cohorts in a tangled mess of limbs, teeth, and black fluid.

_Crack!_

Clearing the thorns in a few long strides, Rogtha made her way back to the tree, but the branch was already falling where the boy’s weight had snapped it. Bow slung over her shoulder, the orc broke into a run, sliding over leaves and blood, chest burning in protest, the dull throb in her back aching all the way to her eyes.

“Faol,” she called, little more than cough forced into the shape of a word. “ _Where are you,”_ she called out in common, and then when that didn’t work, orcish.

A sword sank into the tree behind her and she ducked in spite of herself.

The masked thing was so much taller up close. His pale arm wrenched the black blade of his sword out of the tree bark. Rogtha backed away, barely lifting her feet to avoid tripping over brambles and worst of the fallen limb. She raised her bow defensively waiting for him to swing again.

“Ma-“ Faol’s voice sounded so tiny and distant; pained, but alive. He stopped short, but Rogtha couldn’t turn her head to look for him.

“ _Run!”_ she shouted in orcish, eyes never leaving the chipped paint of her opponent’s mask. “ _Run, pup. I will find you.”_ It was only when she heard small, bounding steps fading into nothing that Rogtha turned and ran herself; circling back around the tree, head low as that black sword swung at her, looking for more of her fallen ammunition. She found two arrows in her run but little else. It would have to do for now.  She cut across the thicket of writhing bodies her spell had made, some rising to their feet as they realized the thorns had disappeared.

The ranger barreled through the first clearing available to her, whistling loud and low for her animal companion, dashing across gnarled and tangled roots for fear of sinking into the soil too deep. She ran until her legs ached and her heart felt fit to burst before slowing down again and starting her wide circle back.

A jog became a walk. Then the pain set in a too long drop, bruises on her ankles and back warm and throbbing beneath her skin. Her head pounding, throat burning and dry, she slowed to a stop. Gulping down lungful after lungful of air she leaned against the nearest tree. It moved with her weight a little, but she was too rattled to care.

Two arrows. She would have groaned in frustration had she possessed the energy. _Two_. She’d have to make more if she had any hopes of defending herself or Faol when she found him.

Something nudged her side, heavy and warm, with a low growl. Rogtha scratched the bear’s side with her elbow. The great beast nudged her again with a worried noise.

“I know,” she whispered, a new wave of worry sending her hands shaking and making her skin feel too tight. “Find him.” It was hard to keep the desperation out of her voice. “Go.”

-0-0-0-0-0-

His chair jolted; kicked to get his attention. Effron’s book nearly fell out of his hands. “ _Effron_ ,” Drizzt’s voice said, exasperated enough for the warlock to know he’d been at this for some time. “My word, man. Have you gone deaf on me?”

Effron blinked down at the book in front of him, his own handwriting staring back at him almost accusatory in the harness of ink scratched into parchment years old.

_Prevention is key. However, sunlight is an easy, exploitable weakness; magical or natural suffices. In lieu of such things, such as with underground or indoor conditions, dispulsion of the magic holding and commanding the construct is the first alternative. If such magic is not readily available, one must destroy the physical construction enough render it immobile and unsalvageable; war magic, fire, bludgeoning weapons, and so forth…_

He closed it and set it aside. “I’m sorry,” he cleared his throat, feeling the rasp in his voice more than hearing it. “I was just concentrating.”

Drizzt didn’t argue with him, just set down a steaming mug of something that smelled of stewed meat and warm saltwater on a space of clear desk. “Try not to overwork yourself too soon,” he said, gentle, moving away to sit on his bed with his own not-steaming mug. “We missed you at dinner.”

The warlock rubbed his burning eyes a second. “Everyone actually got together this time?”

“Well, not everyone,” Drizzt leveled a smarmy look at his friend and gestured with his elbow at him. “But most of us, yes. The scout teams are coming back with less and less now. People are worried we’re going to run out of supplies soon.”

“Good to hear you and Artemis are on better terms.” Effron commented, ignoring the sinking feeling in his gut at the news. His attempt to find comfort in the warmth of the mug was failing.

Drizzt’s face fell. “I wouldn’t quite put it that way.” A forced smile tightened his features, “Artemis wasn’t with us either, but he isn’t trying to kill me, so that’s something. I guess.”

“It is.” Effron brought the warm mug to his mouth. His stomach growled, eager, but his throat closed as soon as the stew was close enough to smell. He set it back down, despite his body’s protests.  “Did you come up with a plan?”

“Not yet. Everyone tossed around ideas, but,” He took a long sip looking thoughtful, “We couldn’t commit to anything; not until this round of hunters comes back. Afafrenfere said he’d come get u when they do.

“What are you working on?” Drizzt asked before Effron could argue, shifting where he sat to attempt a glance at Effron’s work. He was too far away to make out any fine details, but the drawings were visible. “Must be important if it’s turned you recluse again.”

“You’re hilarious, did you know that?”

“You guys could say it more.” The smile was genuine now.

Effron felt relief flood through him at the sight of some kind of improvement from the ranger, even something this small. It wouldn’t last, a small part of his mind tried to remind him, and tied his stomach in a knot for good measure. A shake of his head and Effron tried to ignore the feeling. “I’m going through all of the things I could remember on Draygo’s work. I wish I had my own notes; there are so many fine details I can’t remember” he admitted. “I figure if I read my notes enough something’ll come to me.”

“Has it?” Drizzt scooted closer, arms resting on the footboard of his bed.

“Not yet.”

“Oh.” He sat back.

Silence filled the room. It did this a lot now; filled the spaces in between moments of false, flimsy hope and perverse, heavy despair. It clogged the air and stifled casual conversation. Glances that meant nothing before were charged in that quiet, given meaning they had not earned or did not desire. Effron hated it. He longed for the comfortable, easy quiet of the world moving steadily around him.

“You should eat.” Drizzt broke the silence, seeming no more comfortable in the silence than Effron was. “Take a break.”

“I’m fine,” Effron said, only to have his body refute the statement with that faint, dizzy feeling that came when he hit his limit. His eyes stayed closed a bit longer than they should have. The hairs on the back of his neck bristled at the brush with sleep. “Really.”

“ _Effron_.” Firm, but not angry, and it forced Effron to face the drow.

“I need to do this-“

“What was it you told me? If the dead march tomorrow and we’re too broken to fight all the good intentions in the world won’t matter?” Drizzt tilted his head, reaching behind him to set his empty mug on small table at his bedside.

“I will admit it sound much more harsh when you say it like that,” Effron retorted.

“You need rest.” Drizzt turned away just long enough to hunt down a small book tucked under his pillow. The leather creaked as he opened it to a marked page near the front. He’d made a surprising dent into it for only having it a short time. Effron had only given it to him-

How long ago had that been now? Days?

Effron didn’t reply and stayed seated and silently trying to will himself to give into the hunger gnawing at his chest. Drizzt was right, he needed to eat and if he didn’t their very limited supply would wind up wasted. The warlock steeled himself, and in a single, swift motion knocked back a mouthful of the broth as if it were some hard liquor that would bite him back if it lingered on his tongue too long. Salt and the pungent tilled-soil taste of disquieting age lingered on his tongue until the idea of a second sip was nearly enough to make him lose the first. It was better than starving, he supposed, but not _much_ better. He was starting to miss the cured meat of questionable origin and stale biscuits that had kept them when the road was too barren for foraging.

The warlock spared his companion another look. He’d discarded his book for now and was sitting comfortable on the bed staring off into space. Effron tried to drown a new wave a chill with another swig, and immediately regretted the action as his throat closed rebelliously and set him coughing.  When he recovered, Drizzt was looking at him, concerned.

“I know it’s not very good, Effron, but keep yourself together.” He tried to tease, but Effron heard nothing but fear.

“It’s okay, I just-“ he attempted to gesture out a meaning in between fits, but failed miserably. “It’s okay.”

“Effron,” The concern was still there, but Drizzt had regained some control of his voice. “Get some sleep. Please. You’re a wreck.” He met Effron’s withering look with defiance. “Do _not._ Just- Come here.”

There was something about the way he said it; precariously situated between plea and command that felt poignantly familiar to Effron. He hadn’t heard much of it lately. Not since Draygo had captured them the first time if Effron truly bothered to try and recall. The firm authority and promise of comfort had Effron obeying thoughtlessly. He swayed a bit when he stood, bracing himself against the table that housed his books for balance, then sat heavily on one side of the bed, back propped up against the headboard.

Drizzt sat quietly while the tiefling settled in. “Could you-“ the drow prompted, sheepish and holding out his arm.

When Effron had first replaced Artemis in the room, he’d offered Drizzt what he could in way of peace of mind; someone within shouting distance that slept lightly and a protection spell here and there. Small though the gesture was, Drizzt had appreciated all the same and slept a little easier with the added barrier between him and his demons. Effron couldn’t keep it up forever, they both knew that much, but it was still something to tide him over until everything else had settled.

The drow leaned against Effron’s mangled shoulder and side as the warlock sluggishly pulled his magic into shape; his skill with these types of spells was limited, but the books had taught him enough. A gesture, a touch, and the tingling, heavy feeling in Effron’s wrist seeped through his hand and into Drizzt’s arm. “Should last the night,” he yawned despite himself. A part of him wondered what it felt like to sleep under such protection; he’d never tried it himself.

Drizzt curled up a bit tighter. “We’ll get out of this. Eventually.” He and Effron both laughed at the wave of nostalgia that hit them. “It can’t last forever.”

“Can’t it?”

“Do _not._ ” Drizzt said again nudging him. “Let me have this.”

“Okay.” Effron let out a breath through his nose, unconvinced but too tired to fight it out now. Drizzt was right, a few minutes sleep would do him some good. Would do them _both_ some good.

He woke with a start, not having remembered falling asleep. Drizzt was still pressed to his side, head tucked under Effron’s cheek, breathing deep enough to signal sleep or something like it. Carefully, Effron tried to extract himself. His eyes burned and his body screamed in protest, still exhausted but alert and on edge. For those first few seconds of wakefulness, Effron could have sworn he was back in Castle Quick’s tower with constructs shuffling just outside the doors.

Forcing himself to sit up a little straighter, Effron blinked the world into focus. The candles had snuffed out on their own and very little light came in from the street or the hall, leaving huge swaths of black obscuring his vision. More than once, just as he was closing his eyes, Effron could have sworn the shadows were moving.

A series of knocks, loud and low startled Effron and thwarted sleep’s claim on him. Drizzt groaned groggily beside him, neck popping as he straightened it. Another round of knocking and the lock clicked open; Afafrenfere poked his head in. “On your feet,” he called, “The scouts are back. They think they found something.”

-0-0-0-0-0-

Thay had been city of challenges. The people had been ruthless, the doors strong, the magic deadly. A girl of thirteen was easily picked up and sold if she was not just as ruthless, strong, and deadly. Pickpocketing was a learned skill, espionage a talent. Charm and respect came with age and she’d claimed all of it sleeping in attics and making wizards look bad with well-timed exposures and the occasional judiciously picked bar fight or back alley riot. Every person that had taught her was a stepping stone in her ascension. Every one that rejected her was a target to be torn down like a dilapidated building.

It was a life Dahlia never thought she’d return to once she’d made a name for herself, yet here she was sitting on another rooftop in a different city waiting for something of merit to happen. It wasn’t even a life she could say that she missed, but the break from the mundane, from guild planning and people looking at her expectantly, was nice.

Dahlia pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders. The dark purple fabric wasn’t ideal for blending in with the black sky or orange-red glow of the street lamps, but it was good enough for her purposes. It wasn’t her first time on that rooftop and she hadn’t been noticed back then. Below her, people wandered between streets talking in hushed voices; some people mourned the loss of their city, their livelihoods as they passed shops they once owned or worked in. Others, though, excitable older voices, spoke with some measure of hope.

“The forest still stands,” one voice said. Dahlia peered over the edge of the roof and saw a pair of women, one rapidly approaching elderly, the other young enough to be her daughter approaching. “The oceans still roll, don’t they?” the older woman continued. “The gods won’t let us die, or we would have already.”

The other woman shook her head, unconvinced. “The dead are just biding their time-“

“To hell with you,” The old woman sneered. They had stopped directly below Dahlia in the light of the street lamp. “We’ve had plenty o’ good heroes delivered to us. The paladin. The mercenaries. Those adventurin’ folks Boris is puttin’ up.” She gestured vaguely to the inn across the street. “They’ll keep us safe.”

“They’ll bleed us dry is what they’ll do.” The young woman took off again, continuing up the road. “Numbers and money aren’t a thing without trade-“

“I’ll have you know that those adventurers,” Dahlia strained her ears, but they were too far away for her to hear the rest.

She fiddled with the hem of her cloak, gaze returning to the room across the street and its lone occupant. She might not have been fond of Do’Urden or any of his companions, but they seemed to be affecting morale. She would have to do something about that.

Across the way, Dahlia watched Effron fidget at his desk near the window; his collection of candles filling the room with yellow-grey light. He looked exhausted and scattered even at so great a distance. He flipped through a few pages of a small, leather bound book only to go back and read them again looking more distressed and tired with every pass. After a time, he set the book down and rubbed his eyes in frustration and rolled his shoulder, but immediately set back to working, refusing to break for rest. She had to admire his dedication, and if he worked himself to death that was one less thing for her to worry about.

Bored with the tedium of Effron’s studying Dahlia sat back a bit more comfortably, pulled her eyepatch loose and set it beside her. She tipped her head, one hand rubbing the pink lines on her skin where the straps had dug in the other held out to catch the glass orb as it slipped from its housing. Wiping it down with the corner of her cloak, Dahlia blinked a few times, suppressing a shudder at the feeling open air on the scarred, uneven socket. She rolled the ball between her fingers, musing; she may not have expected Do’Urden to do anything interesting right away, but Entreri had implied something was deeply wrong. So far, she’d seen nothing herself and the other eyes she’d placed on the man had reported nothing out of the ordinary for a city-bound anxiety-ridden ranger.

Resetting the orb in her eye she mused on what qualified as strange for Drizzt Do’Urden. He certainly couldn’t be held to a normal standard. Dahlia had seen him kill, seen him spare those that didn’t deserve it, cut deals with men that were supposedly his lesser, and wander for miles after _ghosts._

Dahlia patted the cracked tiles of the rooftop at her side looking for her discarded patch. In the room, she saw the door swinging open. A dressed-down Drizzt slipped in on that little sliver of light, his white hair tied in knot out of his face, sleeves still rolled up from his day spent occupied. Talim had reported he’d gone searching for supplies or workable soil with a group of women and older children in the more recently abandoned parts of the city. Dahlia had rolled her eyes at the time and she rolled them now.

Drizzt shut the door with the heel of his foot, his hands occupied with two mugs. Dahlia saw his mouth move to form Effron’s name. Then again. A slight pout and he walked closer. He said it again, louder and very close and when Effron still ignored him, Drizzt kicked the warlock’s chair.

Dahlia muffled a laugh with her hand when Effron nearly fell out of it.

Eyepatch forgotten for now, Dahlia watched the men converse; Effron stiff and anxious, Drizzt exhausted but gentle as ever. The drow shifted uncomfortably a few times, but it was no more than Dahlia had seen when they’d travelled together. They sat quietly, Drizzt flitting through a book a moment, then losing himself in thought. Another conversation, and Effron rose, crossing and sitting on Drizzt’s bed with him.

Did that qualify as strange? Dahlia shook her head at herself. Surely it had to be something worse.

The pair fell asleep a short time later, backs propped against the headboard, leaning on each other. Dahlia adjusted her weight, feeling her skin burn where it had rested against the tile too long. A whole lot of nothing just like the last times. A sigh as she pulled the ties of her patch loose enough to refasten so they didn’t dig in this time.

A flickering across the street caught her attention and she snapped her gaze up again. Neither of the men had moved. Dahlia squinted, leaning forward a bit.  The shadows dipped and moved with Effron’s candles congealing into rich black shapes all their own. For a moment, Dahlia thought she could make out a person in those shapes.

No, she realized as she blinked and the orb caught a _very_ human shape in the darkness. There was someone in there.

Dahlia stared at the thing, closing her good eye to get a better look at it with the orb. A silhouette in misty detail stood out a more solid black in the deepest shadows. It stayed there, waiting, gaining density, until it was solid enough to step out into the light unchallenged. Dahlia squinted, not that it helped much, but couldn’t make out fine details at such a distance.

It masculine in shape, or at least humanoid in form, dressed in bizarrely proportioned armor. As it drew near Effron’s candles, Dahlia could make out a faintly skeletal face framed by smoky hair and bright purple-pink eyes.

_A wraith_.

The mercenary weighed her options. She’d agreed to observer, not intervene. Entreri knew she held no love for Drizzt or Effron; in fact their deaths would likely make her life bounds easier. But, she had made her deal with the assassin in good faith. If something happened and Artemis found out she knew, he would likely take her neck to spite her.

The wraith snuffed out Effron’s candles.

Dahlia kept up her vigil, hands patting the roof around her and ultimately grasping a broken piece of tile. If it got too close, she reasoned, she could attempt to wake them and run. If they didn’t wake or react in time, that wasn’t her fault or her problem.

The creature lingered near the window, staring at the pair on the bed.

Dahlia waited.

It approached the sleeping men slowly, skirting the boot of the bed with cautious, predatory movements. Dahlia chewed the inside of her lip. She didn’t know much about wraiths, but she didn’t remember any of the few she’d seen in Thay being this calculating. She’d always thought them creatures of rage and pain not whatever this was.

Drizzt, it seemed, became the creature’s focus and it drew near to him. Dahlia cocked her arm just as it reached the ranger, misty hand outstretched.

One throw, she told herself. That’s all he would get. She’d call it repayment later. Or good faith. A clean slate.

The creature stopped short as if blocked by a wall. It took a few, hasty, steps backward as Effron flinched awake. It blended in so well with the shadows, Dahlia could barely make out the shape, even with the orb’s magic. It watched the warlock extract himself and climb to his weary feet. As far as Dahlia could tell, Effron hadn’t noticed it yet. But, judging my his sudden, alert wakefulness, Dahlia guessed he knew something was amiss.

Dahlia lowered her throwing arm. This was enough for one day. Certainly more than enough to go to Entreri with and fill the first half of her contract with the man. She stopped just short of replacing her eyepatch, Thayan conditioning urging her to take one last scan of the room before heading off.

Drizzt was still asleep. Effron was stretching the sleep from his muscles and seemed struggling to orient himself. The shadow had moved to the edge of Effron’s workspace, nearest the window, but hidden from the light it provided. It was staring outward, slightly up. Dahlia swallowed hard and tried to remind herself that there was no way it could have noticed her. She’d done everything right. Nothing could have given away her position.

But it felt as though the thing was looking right at her; a dreadful heaviness. Its dark face showed no expression, but it seemed as if it was inching closer. Even as its ethereal form cut through Effron desk, his work, Dahlia couldn’t pull her gaze away. Irrationally, for just a moment, she could have sworn it looked something like Drizzt.

“ _Dahlia_.”

The elf jumped, whirling around as she came down, at the noise behind her.

Tiago held up his hands defensively, and Dahlia realized she’d picked up her staff somewhere in the spin. “What?” she snarled at him.

“You need to come with me,” he said, “Scouts are planning something.” The drow started back down from the edge of the roof. “I’ll explain on the way, but we need to get there quickly if we want to cash in on this before Do’Urden’s people do.”

Dahlia nodded, collecting herself. Before following him off the edge of the rooftop, Dahlia chanced one more look back into the room. The door was open, Afafrenfere’s scruffy head haloed in the hall light talking to both of the room’s occupants.

She couldn’t see the wraith any more.

Pulling her patch in place and taking up her staff, Dahlia picked her way down to the alley below, doing her best to put the thought out of her mind for now. The image was stubborn though and lingered on the edges of her vision until the guard tower’s light washed the worst of the shadows away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas, doods. Sorry I made you wait so long. And there's still going to be quite a wait while I finish this and Part Five.
> 
> College is not that kind to the fic writer.
> 
> But thanks to everyone that's patiently stuck with me thus far. I promise I haven't forgotten or abandoned this. Not by a long shot.


	17. Raiding Party

A dense crowd of townspeople had gathered around the closed gate by the time Drizzt and his friends arrived. Whispers moved in ripples across the crowd; talk of hopeful salvation, a chance to last longer, or mocking their aggressors for their arrogance. Drizzt would be remiss to say the spirit of the crowd didn’t lift his own at least a little, but he couldn’t help that small, cynical side of him that knew their hope was probably misplaced.

Afafrenfere had told them what the scouts had found: a cache of supplies stored in a merchant’s cart on a disused path in Ashenglade and they were the second group to see this particular cart. It didn’t seem to be patrolled or guarded and many of the barrels bore the seal of Lord Neverember. They’d been reluctant to pursue the cart on their own, in the event they’d gotten caught, but did manage to steal a few waterskins and possibly more they didn’t share.

The guards had requested any persons equipped to retrieve the supplies report to the front gate for briefing, and that was where Afafrenfere led them despite the steady trickling of doubt from his companions.

“It’s most likely an ambush,” Artemis had said and Effron had agreed with him emphatically.

“No ‘likely’ about it.”

Afafrenfere had brushed them off. “Ambush or no, we _know_ Ashenglade has a store of supplies somewhere. Supplies we _need_.”

Ambergris possessed a similar sentiment when she joined up with them in the crowd. “This could be the chance to buy us some more time to wait out the darkness.”

“And if we all die?” Artemis countered, keeping his voice low but not enough to stop a few wary glances his way.

“We won’t if’n were smart about this.”

Before the two could set to arguing a sharp whistle caught the attention of the crowd. The murmuring died to near silence and people huddled closer together to get a better look at the source of the noise. A voice carried over the crowd.

“I’m sure by now you all have heard what the scouts have found,” a female voice called over the remaining noise. “And you are no doubt wondering what is going to be done about it.” Drizzt felt something frightened and feral take up space in his chest.

_Dahlia_.

Drizzt cast a sidelong look at the others. Ambergris’s scowl soothed him a little. Artemis and Effron were stoic as ever. But, Afafrenfere looked nervous, on edge. “Aff,” Drizzt said, pulling the monk closer. “How long has she been here?”

“How would I know that?” He was covering up his anxiety a little better now.

“ _Afafrenfere_.”

“I don’t know. I only saw her a few days ago, but I’m guessing she got here before the darkness.” The human said with a shrug, “Think she’s taken to mercenary work now. She’s got a little group together or something.”

Drizzt ground his teeth. Of course she’d be here.

When the pair looked back their friends were already moving to the front of the crowd and it took a little shoving for them to catch up.

“Someone needs to go out and get these things,” Dahlia was saying when they reached the center, “and we cannot leave you unprotected.” She looked so different, not just the eyepatch or the clothes, but the way she held herself; tall and authoritative. Very little bluster. She looked every part the leader, especially with what were no doubt her underlings close by.

Drizzt blinked when he recognized one of the faces. _Tiago?_

“We are volunteering our services,” the elf said, and the crowd rumbled excitedly, “To go and fetch this supply cache.”

“And if it’s an ambush?” Athrogate’s voice called over the crowd.

“We are capable fighters,” Dahlia countered, not missing a beat.

“If’n the cart’s broken and you have to carry everything back?” The dwarf had stepped forward.

“We could help them,” Afafrenfere whispered, “We have mounts, they could carry supplies.”

“I’m _not_ offering Dahlia my help,” Drizzt sniped back before he could think to stop himself.

The monk glared at him, “This isn’t about _you_.”

Dahlia seemed unfazed by Athrogate’s question. Turning to face the dwarf, she replied “There are four of us. We can carry a great deal and still fight.”

Ambergris stepped forward, taking up a spot beside Athrogate, “Ye’ll carry a great deal more with help.”

Now the elf took a step back. “Are you offering to help us?” She asked, “We did not ask-“

“ _Ye_ don’t need to ask,” Ambergris interrupted, “ _They_ asked.” She gestured widely to the crowd. “The only way those supplies are good to anyone here is if they make it back. Ye die, ye leave shit behind, it’s useless. And we aren’t in a position to afford useless.”

Athrogate nodded, “Ye need all hands on fer this one. ‘Cause if this is the ambush anyone with half a brain knows it is, ye’ll need to find another cache. Real supplies. Ye need eyes, ears, an’ weapons. Last I checked ye don’t cripple necromancers with wishful thinkin’.”

Afafrenfere shot a smug --and frankly unnecessary in Drizzt’s opinion- look over his shoulder before nudging his way out of the crowd to join the dwarves. “I’m in, too. I’m tired of sitting around waiting for things to happen.”

With a sigh, Effron slipped between Drizzt and Artemis, out into the middle of the crowd. The look he and Dahlia exchanged was nothing short of openly hostile. “You all have no idea what you’re doing and you’re bound to get yourselves killed if left to your own devices.” He explained, holding his hand out.

“We have a mage of our own,” Dahlia replied, her voice devoid of the teasing lilt she’d used on the dwarves.

“I’m willing to bet what little money I have that your mage has next to no necromantic training.” Effron didn’t sound amused either.

Dahlia cast a look over her shoulder and small elf woman in her group looked sheepish and shrugged. She turned back to Effron, “Fine.”

Drizzt scooted closer to Artemis. “What is happening?”

“If I had to guess,” The assassin didn’t look back at him, “The needs of the many are outweighing personal grudges.” He wasn’t making any move to join them.

The ranger paused, feeling foolish. A part of him was furious at his reluctance to volunteer too, but a louder, nastier part kept him rooted in place for now. “But not to you?” Drizzt couldn’t help but laugh. At least the man was consistent.

“It’s a suicide mission.” Artemis growled, voice dropping quiet enough so only Drizzt could hear him, “When the people leave, I am going to remind them why this is a bad idea since apparently risk of being eaten is no longer a deterrent.”

The townspeople were starting to disperse, content with the people acting on their behalf enough to not need to overhear their planning process. Dahlia and her group had huddled in with the dwarves, Effron and Afafrenfere. Artemis approached once the crowd was thin enough to not risk dissent.

“I thought you were against raiding,” He commented, just loud enough that the whole group would hear him.

“Was,” Athrogate replied, “Still am.”

“And yet?”

Athrogate shrugged, “This has a chance o’ workin’. ‘Specially if we pull the ambush force far from the encampment while the rogues do their thing.”

Ambergris nodded, “We can leave some people here in case somethin’ goes wrong. There’s enough o’ us, with Priss’s people.”

“Did you just call me-“

“No one asked ye.”

Drizzt joined up with them, “This is madness.” He said, shaking his head and looking at Effron in particular with no small amount of disappointment. “Absolute madness.” Out of the corner of his eye, Drizzt saw Dahlia tense up as he drew close. He smothered a smirk at the idea that she was just as put off by seeing him as he was her.

“Necessary madness,” Afafrenfere countered, “They’ve showed their hand; trying to starve us out and right now it’s _working_. We can’t let this happen.”

Drizzt couldn’t argue with that.

They lingered off to the side as the group planned their strategies, both separately and together. Overall, Drizzt couldn’t argue that their plan wasn’t sound, even if it did involve working with someone like Dahlia. By the time they broke to collect supplies and prepare, the ranger was almost as convinced as the rest of his group that this might prove beneficial.

“Ye comin’ with us?” Ambergris asked when they were clear of the square and in sight of the inn. Her gaze shifted between the two men. “We could use ye somethin’ awful.”

Drizzt answered first, “I’ll go.” A round of surprised looks caused him to stutter his step a little. “I don’t want to sit here and wait while my friends put themselves in danger.”

Artemis took a deep breath beside him, his knuckles cracking as his fists clenched by his sides. “I suppose I’m going too then.”

The ranger blinked at him, “You don’t have to go simply because I-“

“Don’t” Artemis interrupted. “Do you honestly expect no one around you to compensate for the danger you keep putting yourself in?”

“No one-“

“ _You_ did _._ ” Artemis snapped. “Stop being contrary. We have an ambush to brace for.”

-0-0-0-0-0-

Water dripped down the pile of rocks and rubble blocking their path. The nearly collapsed portion of the tunnel they’d forced themselves through as stifling this far in. Hugo, hunched over the trillimac parchment Tiago had given him and the frame that kept it taut, was nearly desperate to turn back. “I told you it’d be blocked off,” he said, hastily drawing a black ‘X’ on his map in ink. In his haste, his hand brushed the parchment and smudged some of the charcoal grid. The boy swore quietly and turned back without his companion, knowing she’d catch up.

“How many does that make now?” Glenda asked, switching her grip on the lantern for the third time.

“Five,” Hugo sighed. Their map of the sewers was going about as well as he’d feared it would when the drow had given them the assignment. There were no ways out of the city and most of the connecting tunnels that mattered had caved in years ago.

They wandered back the way they’d come, eyes cast downward to make certain of their footing in the uneven tunnels. Hugo knew the Neverwinter sewers were expansive, but they had been down here for what felt like ages and it was starting to get pretty ridiculous. Why had Tiago wanted this stupid map anyway? It was easy enough to know that none of the tunnels really led _out_ of the city anymore; the few going beyond the wall would land them in the middle of undead territory.

And yet he’d sent them down here anyway.

“Which way are we going?” Glenda asked over her shoulder when they reached the white chalk arrow. “I’m all turned around.”

The boy dug through his pockets, with one hand, in progress map resting in the crook of his arm. Glenda moved to his side, lantern held over her head to look at his map and compass. They weren’t helpful. The map only told them where they were in reference to where they’d been and the compass needle was still spinning in a circle, just as it had been when they’d entered.

“No wonder Tiago didn’t want to do this himself,” Glenda grumbled backing away.

“No wonder no one wanted to do this themselves,” Hugo agreed.

Returning to silence and wandering, they stopped every twenty paces or so to put a new line on the map. The sounds of the city above trickled down echoing to the point of being unintelligible off the walls and ceiling. Snippets of conversations, the creaking of cart wheels as people moved closer and closer to the castle and its more defensible section of the city. Every once in a while a tunnel would be lit before they got there; street lamp orange pouring through the storm drains like so much rain water. Rats and other vermin were scarce and scurried away as the sound of Glenda’s boots clicking against the stones approached.

At least, Hugo conceded, Tiago had sent them down prepared. Secondhand leather brigandines and silver plated daggers meant they stood a chance against any straggling undead they might stumble upon. Sturdy boots kept out the turbid, foul-smelling water. Glenda had stolen a few pins to keep her skirt up out of the stuff, but some of them had come loose and now the soft pink, bloodstained fabric came dangerously close.  The smell was almost unbearable after a while; Hugo couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have to get that out of clothing.

Glenda stopped so suddenly Hugo nearly ran into her and sent his map tumbling into the water. He tried to ask her what happened but she shushed him as soon as he took a breath. Just on the edge of the lantern’s light, a shape rested hunched against the wall; humanoid by the look of it, slumped with its head thrown back and legs stretched out in front of it. Hugo dropped his voice to a whisper. “You don’t think-“

Glenda just cast him a sympathetic look and slowly lowered the lantern to the ground.

“You aren’t honestly going to-“

“Shh!”

The shape hadn’t moved despite the noise, but that didn’t stop the girl from approaching with some kind of caution, her boots barely rising from the ground as she moved, dagger catching the light as she gripped it just a little too tightly. Hugo took up the lantern and followed some distance behind. When the light finally washed over the form, Hugo found that he recognized it.

“That’s the baker’s husband,” Hugo whispered, “She’s been looking for him.”

It still didn’t move, Glenda relaxed a little. “Did she say what happened?”

Hugo shrugged, lantern swaying and making tricks of the light with the motion. “He wasn’t the most honest guy, I think. Used to sneak around on her a lot. She wasn’t surprised when he disappeared.”

The girl pursed her lips, but didn’t ask any more questions. She kicked his foot with the toe of her boot. Nothing. She leaned in closer, point of her knife between her and it. The body was grey and withered, dirt staining his tunic that was bunched up and darkened around the collar. His fingers torn up and broken, looked like they’d been clawing at the stone. “I think he’s dead.” Glenda tilted his head to one side with the flat of her blade. “He’s got bruises.”

A ring of dark, veiny marks coated the corpse’s neck. “Someone strangled him? Why?”

“Probably his wife,” Glenda joked.

“She wouldn’t have brought him down here to get rid of him. Have you seen her? She’s barely more than a halfling.” He paused, pulling a face. Now that he thought about it, she might have been a halfling. He’d have to track her down later.

“Fair.” Glenda tipped the head the other way and it pitched forward, chin roughly hitting its chest. The girl startled, dagger flashing so it sank into the body’s eye all the way to the hilt. Breathless, she glanced up at Hugo who stared back at her with the same tension and alarm.

Hugo set the lantern down and drew his own dagger. His heart hammered in his chest. If the undead were able to get through the tunnels and into the city-

“I think it’s okay,” Glenda breathed, planting her boot against the body’s chest to pull her dagger out.

“You sure?” Hugo was reluctant to believe her, remembering the castle guard.

The girl shook the excess fluid off her dagger before wiping it off on a fold of her skirt. “Yes. There’s a huge hole in the back of his head.”

“What?”

Stabbing her dagger into the corpses flesh, she forcibly tilted its head. Sure enough, there was a large, gaping hole in the back of the skull, showing only blackness beneath. “Well damn,” Hugo conceded and Glenda pulled her dagger back out. “I wonder if there are any more.”

“You want to investigate?” the girl smirked at him as she walked back over, touching the bloody tip of her dagger to the spot on the trillimac Hugo had been working on before wiping it off on her skirt again. “It’ll give us more to report back.”

“Could also get us killed,” he countered, but didn’t sound wholly against the idea. Glenda took it as a concession and, her dagger still out, she picked up the lantern and started past the body.

Hugo hurried after her.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Dahlia opted to leave her city-bred underlings in Neverwinter to keep an eye on things, and move people in the event something went horribly wrong. Her people had argued with her, but Dahlia stayed firm. If the march started while they were away, someone had to look out for her interests. Reluctantly they accepted.

They split into three groups. Drizzt, Afafrenfere, and the dwarves were set to engage the ambush directly and pull it as far north as they could. Dahlia and Tiago would take one route into Ashenglade. Artemis and Effron would take another. The first to find supplies would defend them until the other showed up. As they cut through the winding expanse of farmland on foot, Effron told them what he could about fighting the dead, it was a lot of the same he’d given to the guards: “aim for the head, bottleneck them, don’t engage anything that doesn’t look totally solid, go for wizards if you see them.”

That was the plan, anyway.

Many of the lights along the trade road had gone out and no one had bothered to relight them. The edge of the forest drowned in dingy, grey darkness. In the distance, over the trees, it was possible to see a halo of light where Ashenglade was. At their backs, Neverwinter glowed too, but it didn’t seem as strong at this distance.

The grass was dead and crackling when they branched out from the road. The soil was dry and soft, sinking around their feet as they neared the edge of the forest. Sickly sweet and fetid odors wafted between the trees at random. In the distance, leaves rustled only to stop just as abruptly as they had begun. The three groups split as soon as they were behind the tree line.

Drizzt could feel Artemis’s lingering gaze at his side, but forced himself not to look back.

“Oh, Entreri,” Dahlia said, not quite loud enough to carry all that far. “Try not to die. I have some information that might interest you.” She and Tiago disappeared into the blackness before anyone could shoot a retort back at her.

This time Drizzt did turn. “What was that about?”

“I’ll explain when we aren’t knocking on disaster’s door.” Artemis lingered just long enough to say that before he and Effron disappeared in the other direction.

An irrational, acidic anger bubbled up in Drizzt, but he didn’t give into it and chase after the man demanding answers. He could do that later.

The ranger tried to hold onto that anger and focus it elsewhere. There was too much at stake for Drizzt to let in the tense, biting anxiety that plagued so many of his days lately. He couldn’t let himself doubt anymore. He’d volunteered for this, his friends thought he was capable, the people of Neverwinter thought he was capable.

Briefly Drizzt found himself reminded of every practice exercise he’d done that fell flat. Of every sparring match lost in the last few days.

They are just undead. Drizzt repeated it over and over in his head. They aren’t trained fighters. They’re little more than animals.

Ahead of him, Athrogate grunted out the occasional instruction as he served as Afafrenfere’s guide in the darkness. Ambergris confirmed everything he said as she looked over the map the scouts had given them to the staged cache of supplies.

Drizzt lost track of time as they picked their way through the woods unmolested. He trialed his gaze over the higher branches, but found his vision lacking despite the dimness. He frowned, usually darkness brought a more sensitive vision for the drow, but now-

He forced himself not to think about it.

Birds took flight soundlessly when the group edged too near. Something scurried away leaving a pile of disturbed foliage in its wake. The air changed around him at turns, not wind but something else that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end and his chest feel hollow.

“Should be right up here,” Ambergris whispered and the others nodded that they’d heard her.

Before they got into sight of cart a shrill shriek split the air. The quartet ground to a halt, hands on their weapons. Ambergris, map tucked into her belt, pulled her mace free and stepped to the front of the group. Dragging her feet she led them to a clearing.

Leaning against a tree ripped partially up at the roots were the tattered remains of a cart. The wheels broken or missing, the whole thing containing a few closed crates and barrels just as the scouts had described it. If there had been anything small enough to carry by hand it was missing now. Footprints had ripped up leaves and soil alike all around the place.  Another scream and all weapons were drawn.

It didn’t sound like anything was approaching them. In fact, it grew still and silent after that second scream, as if whatever made the sound hadn’t even needed to breathe afterward. The four stood their ground, waiting with their backs together, eyes and ears searching for even the slightest hint of intrusion.

“Over there-“ Afafrenfere pointed over Ambergris’s head to the cart. “I think I heard something.”

Drizzt’s face warmed over a bit. He hadn’t heard anything. Tilting his head, he listened more closely. A faint clinking? He couldn’t be sure if he was imagining the sound or not.

They approached as a group, cleric at the front, blind monk somewhere near the middle. The clinking sound grew louder every step closer they took until it was impossible to doubt it was there.

“Come out,” Ambergris said, low and threatening. “If ye be alive, we aren’t gonna hurt ye.”

No response.

They separated; Afafrenfere staying with Athrogate at the front. Ambergris and Drizzt circling around the sides of the cart. Drizzt skirted the bent tree, ducking beneath its branches, alert and searching for movement in the blackness pooling between the trees.

“Dumathoin’s _beard_.” Ambergris swore. “Drizzt, I need some light.”

The ranger rounded the cart and saw Ambergris pointing to a shadowed space among the wreckage. A stake was driven into the ground close by, a strong iron chain looped around it and disappearing into the space. It clinked and rattled as if something alive was still attached to it.

Drizzt held Twinkle out and called on its light. Both he and Ambergris blinked against the burn of the glow after so much time in darkness. Drizzt felt a pang in his heart at the sudden flood of starlight. How long had it been since they’d had a night sky now? Months?

“Damn.” Amergris inched closer. “Still dark.”

Drizzt matched her movements on the other side of the space, dropping low and trying to angle the light the right way.

More screaming, prolonged and not quite human this time. Shrill enough to make teeth clench and ears ring even after it died down. Words jumbled in with the sounds. Drizzt couldn’t pick out much, aside from a few orcish words. _Aid, pain-_

_Mother?_ No that couldn’t be right.

Ambergris tugged him aside by his belt, when whatever was hiding under the cart lunged for him. Twinkle slipped from his grip, plunging them into darkness again. It chased them until it was on the end of its chain, clear of the cart and in full view of everyone, still screaming those orcish words.

It was a small thing, about waist high with an orc face and sickly complexion. Sweat had matted dirt and debris to its face and hair. Sunken, bloodshot, tearful eyes watched them with a starving animal’s intent. Flecks of blood speckled the air and its lower lip and jaw as it screamed itself raw and struggled against the chain around its neck. It didn’t stop to breathe or cough as its airway was cut off by the chain, it clawed at the wood and dirt closest to it.

“Oh no,” Ambergris breathed.

Drizzt was surprised she’d managed to find words when they’d escaped him so completely.


	18. Little Wolf

 

“No ambush yet.”

Drizzt snatched up Twinkle, the blue light offering little comfort the second time. He rose to his feet beside Ambergris as their other two companions approached. The clearing was still empty, it seemed; no sound but for those made by the creature at their feet. It had stopped screaming in favor of gurgles and growls, puffing itself up to look threatening. It twisted in its chain, a starving animal close to food but unable to reach and the chain dug in more, shredding the brittle skin there and coloring the whole of its neck a sickly, veiny blue-black.

“It’s a ghoul,” the cleric informed the others, when they balked at the sight.

It flailed at them, clawing at the air and gnashing its mouth so viciously its teeth clicked and jaw popped, pale foam collecting between small, stubby tusks and the corners of its mouth.

Afafrenfere winced, lower lip drawing between his teeth. “But,” he hesitated, “It’s so small.”

“Pretty sure the undead don’t have age limits, Aff.” Ambergris grumbled, drawing Skullcrusher. “Let’s just destroy the creature and be done with this awful business.”

“And quick,” Athrogate nodded briskly, the avoidance of his gaze obvious. For a heartbeat, Drizzt remembered Bruenor’s distaste for the dead and nearly laughed at the inappropriate memory. “Entreri an’ Eff’re waitin’ on us. An’ who knows where the horde is if it ain’t here.”

Drizzt put his blade to the ghoul’s throat, just above where the chain dug in; piercing just enough to hold it still. Its hands scrabbled at Twinkle, loose and dirty bandages slicing free to reveal the infected semi-circle of a bite beneath and then slicing up palm and fingers alike when that protection was gone.

Recognition came slowly, but with an intensity that could not be ignored; like a burn on the back of his neck after too long in the sun. His breathing caught in his throat, his jaw too tight to release it. This _boy_ that had been so meek even astride a bear, but fearless when staring Drizzt down-- Glassy, lightless eyes stared back at him, devoid of childish curiosity or naïve concern, just empty. A poisonous, sickly vacuum trapped in razor thin yellow irises that threatened to hollow out the ranger too.

He took a step back.

“Drizzt?” Ambergris called out to him. Her voice felt so far away, muffled, as if underwater or beyond a wall. He wanted to respond. Reassure her he was alright, that they should get a move on. But, those things were all too far away for him to reach; held just so his fingertips could brush it by some cruel, invisible tormentor.

He saw the streak of black coming toward him much too late to react to it. The force of the blow knocked him from his feet and flat on his back hard enough to knock the wind out of him. Pain exploded, white hot and electric up his neck and down his left arm when he sucked in a fresh breath, coughing up stale, humid air and dust in its wake. The arrow hadn’t stuck in him, only grazed his shoulder dangerously high and close to his neck. Warm blood flowed in time with his pulse, staining his shirt and hair. He stayed down, staring at the black velvet sky and waiting for the pounding in his ears to stop.

Ambergris was at his side in an instant that seemed to drag on for ages. She wrapped him up hastily, taking her time only to stop the bleeding and fasten linen soaked in something astringent and stinging to the gash. “Still in there?” She hauled him up to sitting and checked the back of his head for injuries.

There was shouting he recognized as his companions; the swish of flails and crunch of leaves. The little ghoul howled, an unholy agonized sound. But he couldn’t hear combat. Yet.

“ _Scourge!”_ The voice was guttural, low yet sharp around the edges. A bright flash of light against Drizzt’s dull and disoriented senses. “ _Release my son!”_

Ambergris helped Drizzt to his feet. Over the corner of the cart on the edges of the shadows and Twinkle’s light, he spotted a tall, broad-shouldered humanoid figure holding a nasty-looking bow, lowered but with an arrow in place. A female orc and Drizzt felt a fresh twinge of pain in his core; he recognized her too, even without the heavy cloak or the bear.

Athrogate and Afafrenere had fanned out to flank her as they crossed the clearing; the dwarf had his weapons out. Afafrenfere held out his empty hands, trying to keep the peace. “ _We haven’t captured anyone_ ,” the monk said in heavily accented orcish, “ _We’re trying to help. We aren’t your enemies_.”

“Speak for yerself,” Athrogate grunted. The orc shot him a look, lip curled in a snarl and said something back that Drizzt couldn’t translate. Athrogate stumbled a bit, his ankles tangled in thorny brambles sticking out of the leaves. His pace slowed, but he didn’t stop, swearing and ripping his feet free with every step. “Goddamn- magicky-“

“ _We don’t want to fight you_ ,” Afafrenfere tried, slowing to a stop.

“Yes, I do!”

“Athrogate, stop,” The monk looked fit to punch his friend, “Now is not the time.”

The orc frowned at Afafrenfere. “Release my son. I leave you in peace.” Her gaze returned to Drizzt, “Scourge or no.”

“She wants the ghoul so bad,” Athrogate grumbled, the tail of his beard catching on a particularly nasty thorn, “Give it to her. Let it eat her.”

“It isn’t safe to release the creature,” Ambergris shot back, “It could infect others.” She raised her mace to swing. “We don’t have time for this.”

The orc drew back on her bow. “Stop!” was the only word she said in common, switching to orcish in desperation, “ _He’s only sick. He’s little and weak. He hasn’t hurt anyone.”_

Ambergris hesitated, frowning down at the blighted creature before her.

“It’s an _orc_ , Gristle. Probably doesn’t even know this kid. It’s just trying to get close to Drizzt,” Athrogate argued. “Kill the thing. We kill her. We’re done.”

_“Give me back my son or you and I shall draw our dying breaths together.”_ Even though they weren’t pointed at him anymore, her words washed cold and vicious across Drizzt’s skin. They froze his blood into shards and tore at something deep within him.

Without thinking, Drizzt put his right hand on Ambergris’s arm to stay her swing. When he looked up, the orc was lowering her bow. Athrogate stopped his advance. Afafrenfere breathed a sigh of relief so huge it looked as if he might fall over from the sheer force of it.

“What do you want?” she demanded, still not approaching with Athrogate and Afafrenfere cornering her. “In exchange.”

“You assume I want something?” The words felt strange in his throat; borrowed from someone else.

The orc leveled a look at him that might as well have been a second arrow for all it stung him. “I know who you are. Your history. The Scourge of the North does not let orcs go for nothing. You killed so many sons, why not mine, unless you gain?”

“I fought in a _war_ ,” It was a yelp of pain in response to a pressed wound. “Your people slaughtered _just as many_. I _never_ brought harm to small children, I’m not an animal.”

“No. You play _hero_.” She spit back.

Words of argument weren’t coming. He wasn’t equipped to fight her. Drizzt just stared at her, numb, and braced himself for another blow, another arrow, another sentence. None came.

“I didn’t do _this_.” He said, taking a staggering step back. Ambergris followed him.

“Ye can’t be serious,” Athrogate grumbled when Afafrenfere stepped out of the orc’s way too. “This is gonna end badly.” But he lowered his weapons and stood still enough to let her pass.

She drew close, a trapped animal. Her raw and bleeding knuckles were white with her grip on her bow. Up close, Drizzt thought, she seemed much less intimidating. Tall, muscular, and bestial like all other orcs, yes, but pale and tired. Her bright yellow eyes were ringed in darkness, small cuts and bruises stood stark and black on the planes of her face. Leaves and small twigs stuck in her hair, wrenched loose in its braid, gently curling fly-aways framing her face in a way that so familiar they made Drizzt’s heart ache. Her clothing was torn, gashes and rents rippling her armor, blood and grime caked up to her knees. Her arm trembled with the strain she put on it to hold her weapon in front of her.

“Pup?” She called softly as she drew closer to the corner of the cart followed by a few words Drizzt couldn’t remember the meanings for, but drained the color out of Afafrenfere’s face entirely. There was something different in her voice; warmer, laced with a promise of safety, as she called out with more insistence, “Faol.”

It took Drizzt a second too long to recognize the tone as a loving one just as it had taken him too long to recognize the boy.

Her eyes flashed wide and angry when she came into full view of the creature before them. He seemed even tinier compared to her; like she could pull him to her chest with one arm and no one would be able to find him again. She kept calling to him, trying to get his attention, but her voice shook in the absence of certainty that her son had only been in danger. She crouched down, knees sinking into the soft, freshly tilled earth around the cart. If it stung the scrapes and cuts on her knees she didn’t show it.

She stopped calling his name and just watched him, silent, as the ghoul struggled against its tether, snarling. The orc was closer than any of them had been and it knew, screaming in impotent rage when it couldn’t quite reach her either.

“We found him like this. Part of the trap. We don’t know how long he’s been here.” Drizzt said, desperate to fill the silence.

 “I should have killed you when you drew your weapon on him before,” the orc replied, but it lacks the icy stillness that had so cut him before.

Drizzt heard a whispered “You _what_?” from Afafrenfere, but elected to ignore it for now. They could argue about his lie later.

“Our friend says the sickness spreads quick,” Drizzt continued, knowing no better words of comfort for this, “once the fever comes.” It earned him a surprised, angry glare from Ambergris and he didn’t see how the others reacted, but it was silent. He couldn’t find it in himself to care.

A long beat of something as close as they could get to silence followed. Drizzt felt it like a wound, spilling out his lifeblood and drowning him in it. Questions whispered underneath it. How many mothers had he done this to? War or no war.

To her credit, the orc didn’t crack or crumble, her face a stony mask as she stared down the wailing creature. Darkened, cracked fingernails sliced through the air and she only blinked as they passed.  “I was wrong to shoot you,” The orc said finally, rising and turning to face the ranger. “ _This_ time.”

Drizzt nodded, accepting the apology for what it was. “I-“ something in him demanded he respond, but his mind refused to supply what to say. His companions didn’t help him, perhaps for good reason. An apology would ring as hollow out loud as it did in his head. Platitudes, sympathy, it all seemed gross and inappropriate.  In those few seconds he struggled, he desperately wished Artemis had come with them. He might not have been the most emotionally cognizant person he knew, but he understood _people_ in a way Drizzt couldn’t hope to match. He knew what to _say_ , even if he didn’t feel it.

“I understand,” was all Drizzt could manage on his own.

She seemed to take that well enough; chin dropping slightly, the grip on her bow loosening a little.

“Wait- _what?_ ” Athrogate piped in, no longer caught in the thicket, jogging up to them alongside Afafrenfere, “We’re just lettin’ this go?”

“Yes.” Afafrenfere and Drizzt said together.

“ _This_ time,” Drizzt added, turning to the orc moving his arm and showing the wound.

She took no offense.

“Bah!” Athrogate threw up his hands and started away, “Fine. Let’s just-“ he deflated a little, “Let’s just get done with this nasty business an’ move on with our damn lives. Our friends are waitin’.”

Finally, an easy point to agree on. But no one moved for several long seconds.

“We cannot suffer the creature to live,” Ambergris said, picking up her mace again, “What Eff said about ghouls- We can’t risk ‘im infectin’ others.” She chanced a glance at the orc; first at the bow in her hands, then to her eerily blank face. The others followed suit.

“On with it, then,” Athrogate urged, impatient.

A step and the cleric lifted her weapon, only to be stopped a second time by a hand on her arm. “No.” The orc said, more breath than word. She knocked her arrow, which, now that Drizzt could see her back clearly, he noticed was her last. She took a few steps back, until she was nearly shoulder to wounded shoulder with the drow, “He… he is _my_ son. His death is my burden.” A deep breath and she raised her arm to take aim, but her arm shook, forcing her to lower the weapon a moment and breathe. The whole time she kept her gaze level with the creature. The tiny ghoul that had once been her son.

She raised her arm again, steadier this time.

Drizzt’s heart leapt into his throat, furious beat demanding action. Demanding words. Something. A better option. A lesser burden. _Anything_.

The arrow _thunked_ home in the center of the ghoul’s forehead, snapping its head back with a sickening _crack_ and a wet noise, before Drizzt could find the words to try to convince her that she didn’t have to be the one to do this.


End file.
